


A Touch of Lightfic, Vol. III

by VagrantWriter



Series: Reader Requests [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Crossdressing, Dubcon Cuddling, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Implied Attempted Suicide, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intersex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Blood and Gore, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Multi, Past Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Bonding, mentions of animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Yet more lightfic requests from readers.Ch 1. Sheared: Yara helps TheonCh 2. Awoken: Jeyne and Theon are far awayCh 3. Understood: Sansa brings home a cat, and Theon is mysteriously absentCh 4. Anchored: Yara's there when Theon has a nightmareCh 5. Donned: Sansa has a bad day, but she also has TheonCh 6. Recovered: Yara saves Theon...from himselfCh 7. Unmoored: Theon and Jon talk before the Battle for the DawnCh 8. Moved: Theon asks a favor of YaraCh 9. Sheltered: Theon gets comfort at the DreadfortCh 10. Re-Moved: Theon infiltrates the DreadfortCh 11. Deserved: Robb wants to heal TheonCh 12. Reserved: Robb continues to work with TheonCh 13. Preserved: Robb deals with his changing feelings towards TheonCh 14. Puzzled: Robb and Theon are reunited after the Red WeddingCh 15. Worn: Theon and Sansa bond over fashionCh 16. Shone: Robb finds TheonCh 17. Joined: Theon wants to be by Robb's side [a/b/o]Ch 18. Tended: Theon checks on JeyneCh 19. Started: Theon is waiting for someoneCh 20: Served: Robb and Theon move forward together
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Theon Greyjoy/Jeyne Poole, Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: Reader Requests [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/417202
Comments: 237
Kudos: 171





	1. Sheared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> attaining says:
> 
> _All I want in this world is Yara comforting Theon after he returns to Pyke, like gently helping him bathe or shave or cut his hair as they talk about Ramsay and their family._
> 
> There's a little bit of angst in here, especially since I give an explanation for why we never meet show!Alannys.

“For fuck’s sake, Theon, stop _fidgeting_!”

He did. He went very rigid and still, save for the slight tremor of his body.

Yara sighed and let the hand with the scissors in it fall limp at her side. She shouldn’t have yelled at him. He was like a child now. She had to remember that.

He’d always been like a child. A frightened, crying child as the greenlanders had pulled him out of her mother’s arms. A spoiled, cocksure child who’d returned to Pyke, eight years later, looking more like those same greenlanders than like any true Ironborn. A stubborn, petulant child who refused to heed her warning about holding Winterfell. And always, always lost.

“It’s alright, baby brother,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” he mumbled.

But he _didn’t_ know. He didn’t _truly_ believe she wouldn’t hurt him. And that tore at her. She had failed him. Again. She was so angry at herself and at him and…

She breathed. “Just…stop moving so I don’t get your ear, alright?”

He started to nod, but then must have realized that was moving and abruptly stopped. “Sorry.”

 _Don’t apologize_! She bit down on that and raised the scissors again. His hair was mostly dry, scrubbed clean of the filth and snarls from his time in captivity. It was brittle and gave way under the shears like bits of straw. He held very still, and the only sound in the room was the _snip-snip_ of the scissors.

“You don’t…” His voice broke. “You don’t have to—”

“Enough,” she cut him off, pulling just hard enough at his hair to get her point across. Not hard enough to hurt. She meant what she’d said. She wasn’t going to hurt him. “If I want to cut my baby brother’s hair, I damn well will.”

“It’s not right,” he murmured. “I came back to Pyke to serve _you_ , and here _you_ are, seeing to _my_ needs like I…” He trailed off, so she couldn’t be sure what he meant to say. Like I’m a child? Like I deserve your kindness?

“Theon.” She stopped cutting and came around the stool and sank down to be at his eye level. Not that he would look at her. “You are not my servant. You are my brother. And nothing will ever change that.” _My brother is dead_. She did not allow herself to wince at the memory of her own words. “I don’t hate you.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

She shook her head and set the shears on the floor, among the little piles of hair that had gathered around the stool’s legs. “I _don’t_ hate you, Theon. I hate…” _I hate what you’ve become._ _I hate what they did to you, the greenlanders. The lot of them_. “I hate that I couldn’t help you.”

Which was true. She’d tried. Drowned God she’d _tried_. But it hadn’t been enough.

On her return voyage from the Deadfort, she’d had recurring nightmares. Reliving those moments in the kennels. Each time, thinking if she could just _say the right thing to get through to him_ … But she never could, and he always ended up running from her. She still didn’t understand why he hadn’t come with them. Perhaps a touch of their uncles’ madness lingered on in Balon’s line as well. It was the only explanation she could think of, the only one that made sense to her.

He seemed to know where her thoughts were, because he began trembling again, fiddling with his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry. You lost good men because of me. So many people have died because of me. I don’t know…why I’m still here.” He took in a sharp breath, the telltale gasp of someone trying to fight back tears.

 _Don’t cry_! _You’re not a child anymore_! She gritted her teeth against those words. Instead, she laid her hand on top of his to still their twitching.

“I _don’t_ hate you, Theon, and I’m not ashamed of you. If I were, I wouldn’t accept you back. Do you really think I would pretend to trust you if I did not?”

His eyes darted up to meet hers, but only for a second.

“I don’t _humor_ anyone, Theon. Not even my bratty little brother. You already know you’ll get no pity from me.”

He nodded, almost an unconscious movement. “I know.”

“You don’t want my pity, Theon.”

“I know.”

“Then let me cut your hair. I’m doing it because I _want_ to.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, so she grabbed the scissors and stood back to her full height. While she was here, facing him, she might as well work on his bangs. It was a wonder he could see anything through them. She took a lock between her fingers, and even though she had tried to be gentle, he still flinched.

“It’s just the two of us,” she said as she cut the lock away.

Without moving his head, he looked up at her. Big blue eyes peering at her between strands of ruined hair. The same blue as their mother’s.

“With Father gone,” she continued, moving to the next lock. “And Mother…”

She was the one to flinch when she felt an unexpected touch to her arm. She looked down to see he had rested his hand on her forearm and was actually looking at her. Meeting her eyes.

“Yara.” His voice cracked again. “Was Mother…?”

She swallowed around the lump that had suddenly risen out of her throat. “She thought about you. A lot. After you left. It was all she talked about. More than Maron or Rodrik.” _More than me_. “She loved you, Theon.”

“I should have been here.”

 _You should have_. But she _didn’t_ blame him for that.

She started to rub at her eyes, but then realized she was still holding the scissors. She did not fancy wearing an eye patch like Uncle Euron, so she quickly went back to her work. “She wasn’t in any pain, towards the end. The maester gave her some milk of the poppy, and she told me she could hear you playing with your toy ships in the next room. She thought you were still here, that you were still a small boy.”

“What was it like?” he asked. “After I left? The first time?”

She had to think for a moment. Nobody had ever asked her that. How she felt about her older brothers dying, about her younger brother being taken away, about her mother’s illness, seeded on that day she’d lost all three boys in one swoop. Nobody had ever asked her how she felt about being left alone.

“It wasn’t so bad,” she answered.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“I thought you told me you wouldn’t humor me.”

“It _wasn’t_ so bad once I got my own ship,” she said with a shrug. “But there were times…” She shook her head. She’d never been one to feel sorry for herself. She didn’t give pity and she didn’t ask for it in return.

“I’m sorry, Yara.” His hand slipped off her arm. “I won’t leave you again.”

She snorted. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” That was enough on his bangs. She needed to work on the back of his head again.

He watched her walk around behind him. “I mean it. I want to be useful to you. I want to make up for everything.”

This time she had to suppress a smirk. A jab about him still being all talk. “Right now you can be useful to me by keeping still.” She started back in on her clipping, getting into a regular rhythm. “We’ll get you presentable again, and then I won’t be embarrassed to be seen with you.”

His shoulders tensed up.

“That was a joke.” She prodded at his ribs. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you, baby brother.” And she wasn’t. Never mind that word of his emasculation had spread around the Islands. She’d cut out the tongue of any man or woman who questioned her brother’s manhood. “You’re Ironborn, Theon. You’re stronger than you know.”

He was quiet for a long. Then he held up a hand, like a child seeking a parent’s comforting hand in return. Yara held in a sigh as she grasped for his awkwardly reaching hand. She couldn’t get into the habit of indulging him like this.

It was his unmaimed hand, and she was startled when he squeezed her fingers with strength she honestly hadn’t expected. In that instant, she wondered if she actually was the one indulging him. Maybe he was indulging her.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

“You’re Ironborn,” she repeated, squeezing back. “And I’m glad you’re home.”


	2. Awoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vedic-anarchist asked: 
> 
> _Can I request a romantic Theyne fic that showcases their happily-ever-after?_
> 
> You absolutely can, my dear.

Theon’s eyes popped open. He jerked into a sitting position, sheets bunching up around his lap, as he scanned the room for the thing that had awoken him. His eyes alit upon the slight figure in the doorway, haloed in the soft light from her little candle. Jeyne.

Wordlessly, she made her way across the room. Her bare feet didn’t even cause the floorboards to creak, and Theon wondered how she had managed to wake him, being as silent as she was. She set the candlestick on the block of wood that served as his nightstand. Then, without so much as a pause, she started to climb into bed with him.

Well, “bed” was perhaps a generous term. More like a cot. Theon had slept on worse—much worse—and didn’t mind so much, but Jeyne had an actual bed in her own room. And now she was nestling up beside him and pulling at the covers.

“Jeyne, what are you doing?” he said, finally managing to find his tongue.

“I can’t sleep,” she answered.

“But—”

“We shared a bed on the boat,” she said, cutting off his protest.

And again, “bed” was a generous term. They’d slept in the same hammock, in a hull crowded with other passengers headed for Braavos. It had been uncomfortable, but necessary. Even if they _had_ found themselves completely alone, away from prying eyes, he doubted either one of them would have had the inclination to…well, whatever one imagined a young man and woman got up to while sharing the same bed.

“You wouldn’t be more comfortable in your own bed?” It was why he’d insisted she take it, while he took the cot out in the main room of their little tenement.

She shook her head before laying it down on the straw-stuffed pillow. “I’m most comfortable wherever you are.”

She couldn’t be. She couldn’t possibly. After everything that had happened…after all the things Ramsay had had him _do_ to her…

“Please, Theon,” she said. “Just for a few minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Leave him alone? She thought that was his objection?

“I just need…I need you to say the thing you said when we were on the boat.”

Her voice was so plaintive. He couldn’t deny her. After denying her for so long, after refusing to help her. He lay back down and pulled the covers over them. She was so small, curled up against him. He could smell the rough soap in her hair from her last bath. He was not used to smelling clean things.

She took his arm and draped it over her waist. “Would you say it? Just like you did on the boat?”

He leaned his head forward and whispered into her ear, the way he had in the hull of the ship, so as not to wake the other passengers. “You are Jeyne Poole. I am Theon Greyjoy. And everyone who tried to tell us otherwise is far away.”

“Mmm,” she hummed and nuzzled deeper into him. “It’s like a nice bedtime story.” She laid her hand on top of his. Her slender fingers found the spaces where his were missing. “Thank you, Theon. I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Are you truly more comfortable sleeping with me?”

He felt her head bob as she nodded.

“You can sleep here tonight, then…if you want.”

“Thank you.” She pulled his arm tighter around her. Her body grew tense in a way that made him nervous. “I…I know this is very straightforward of me, and not at all appropriate but…” He could feel her steeling herself to get the words out. “Theon, will you marry me?”

“Huh?” He bolted up, and in a flash she had bolted up too.

“It’s just that—we’re already pretending to be a married couple and—and it might be better to just—you know, make things official.”

“Oh, Jeyne, you don’t want someone like me as your husband.”

“Yes, yes I do. You’re brave, Theon, and you’re gentle, and I know it’s not my place to ask but…” She got up to her knees and clasped his hands in her own. They were so tiny and cold, rough from the work she had taken on as a washerwoman. “The truth is, I know nobody else will have me. Will want me. Not after…everything.”

“That’s not true, Jeyne.” He pulled one of his hands out of hers to run it through her hair. He winced as strands of it fell through his missing fingers. “There are plenty of brave, gentle men who would take you for a wife. But I…I can’t be a husband to you, Jeyne. I can’t protect you the way a husband should. I can’t provide for you.” He could barely hold a broom in his ruined hands. “I can’t…give you children.”

In the dim light of her candle, slowly burning down, her eyes were large and luminous as they stared up at him. She reached for his face, brushed those tiny, cold, callused fingers over his jaw. “I’d rather have you.”

Her voice was so earnest, and it shook him to his core. For a long moment, he stood there, kneeling next to her, searching her eyes for any hint of a lie. She couldn’t possibly…

“Theon…” Her voice was quiet in the dark. “Will you marry me?”

He swallowed. His heart beat faster.

A wife—any wife, let alone one with the patience and grace of Jeyne Poole—was more than a wretched cur like him deserved. He should say no. She would regret it. Soon enough she would come to realize how she had saddled herself with a useless husband. Worse than useless. A burden. But…he couldn’t deny her.

“Yes.”

She smiled then, without any further words, turned to blew out the candle on the nightstand, plunging the room into true darkness. Theon settled back into the cot, and she settled back in next to him, her back against his chest. The blanket was thin and stiff, and the mattress and pillow were scratchy, but he was filled an overwhelming sense of calm as he took in the smell of the soap in her hair.

“Would you say it again?” she whispered. “Like you did on the boat?”

“You are Jeyne Poole,” he whispered into her ear, felt her shiver. “I am Theon Greyjoy. And everyone who tried to tell us otherwise is far away.”


	3. Understood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theon-greystark asked for a fic where:
> 
> _Theon gets turned into a cat and goes to Sansa and/or Robb, but since he’s a cat he can’t just explain everything, so they adopt him while still looking for Theon, who is mysteriously missing._
> 
> For more cat!Theon shenanigans, check out [this fill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696320/chapters/20224264) from my previous lightfic requests.

“Hey, Sans, what’s up with the cat?”

Sansa looked down at the cat trailing behind her. “Oh, it just sort of followed me home.”

“And you just let it?” Robb stopped what he was doing in the kitchen—making himself a PBJ. A PBJ! For dinner? Honestly—and came around the counter, pursing his lips in disapproval. “Do you really think that’s smart? I mean, even ignoring our six hellhounds, Mom’s not going to be crazy about your bringing a stray home.”

“I don’t think he’s a stray. He’s pretty tame.” Sansa bent down and held out her arms. The sleek black cat ran into them and immediately began kneading at her hair, chewing it at furiously with its teeth. “Ouch!” she cried.

A wry grin crept onto Robb’s face as he watched her struggle. “What was that you were saying? About it being tame?”

“Ah! Ah, cut it out!” She dropped the cat, which landed on its feet and immediately darted for Robb.

Robb flinched, but it only began rubbing up against his pants, threading itself between his legs.

“Well, in any case,” Sansa said, trying to smooth down her hair, “he’s obviously well taken care of. I think he’s somebody’s pet.”

The cat turned to her and hissed.

“Does it have a collar?”

“Didn’t see one,” she answered. “I thought I’d go to the vet tomorrow to see if he’s got a chip.”

“You’re right,” Robb mused. “Somebody’s probably missing this guy.” He bent down and scratched the cat behind its ear.

The cat leaned into the touch, blue-green eyes falling closed in bliss. A gentle purr rumbled in its chest. And then in a flash, its eyes popped open and it jumped away from Robb’s hand, as if startled. Sansa stifled a giggle into her hand.

“He’s acting kind of weird,” Robb noted, standing back up. “Maybe he’s got a disease, like rabies or something.”

Sansa twisted her lips in skepticism. “I highly doubt it, but just in case, I’ll keep him away from the dogs for the night.”

“Probably a good idea all around.” Robb put his hands on his hips, his face growing thoughtful in the way it did whenever he was trying to be responsible. “We’ll put him in the garage tonight.”

“What? No. It’s cold out there. I’ll keep him in my room.”

Robb glowered at her, obviously not approving. She stuck her tongue out at him and was startled when the cat leapt up into her arms. This time, instead of chewing on her hair, it nuzzled under her chin.

“See?” she gloated. “Lemon Cake agrees with me.”

“Lemon Cake?”

“It’s what I decided to name hi—ow! Cut that out!” She paused to disentangle his claws from her shirt.

Now Robb was stifling his laugh. “I don’t think he cares for your name.”

“Fine!” Sansa picked the cat up under his furry little armpits and lifted him up into the air. He hung there, glowering at her. She glowered back. “We’ll call him Pain in the Butt.”

His tail twitched.

“Speaking of pain in the butt…” Robb made his way back into the kitchen. “Have you seen Theon today?”

“Theon? No. Why?”

“Just haven’t heard from him today,” Robb called over the sound of the running faucet. “It’s not like him to disappear all of a sudden.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sansa flopped down on the couch, cat still in hand. “That’s _totally_ like him.” Pain the Butt hopped up onto the armrest and began bouncing on the cushions, meowing loudly. Sansa reached up to grab him. “Hush up, you. Anyway, why would _I_ have seen Theon?”

Robb’s head poked around the corner, a cheeky grin on his face. “I don’t know…”

“What—?” She sat up straight, and Pain in the Butt yowled. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Robb repeated, waggling his eyebrows.

Sansa sank back into the cushion, her face heating up. “I’m not—there’s nothing going on between Theon and me, okay? We just…hang out sometimes. Like _you_ guys do.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it. It’s not like that! Theon’s…Theon’s a nice guy.”

Pain in the Butt stopped yowling and stared up at her. This close she could make out little flecks of grey in his irises. _They’re the same shade as Theon’s…_ Where had _that_ thought come from?

“What did you just say?” Robb reappeared again, sandwich in hand. He had been making a PBJ for dinner! “Did you just say Theon’s a _nice guy_?”

Sansa shrugged defensively. “ _What_?”

“Theon’s a lot of things, but I think you’re the first person in the history of forever to call him a _nice guy_.”

“He _is_ , Robb.” She pulled Pain in the Butt into her lap and began stroking his soft, sleek fur. “You know, there really is this sensitive side to him. He tries to hide it and act all tough, but there are times when we’re hanging out together— _just_ hanging out together,” she reiterated, seeing Robb’s mouth open, no doubt to offer some glib comment. “And he’s laughing and smiling—I mean, really smiling, not that douchebag smile he has on all the time.”

“I know the one,” Robb agreed.

Pain in the Butt gave an unhappy growl, even as he melted into Sansa’s lap under her petting.

“He just seems like…” She searched for the right word. “He seems like someone who would _be_ there for you, you know?”

“Hmm,” Robb said with a thoughtful grunt. He stuffed his entire sandwich into his mouth and chewed for a few moments. “Well, he’s not been here today. If you see him, tell him to check in with me, yeah? I worry about him when I don’t know where he is.”

“Me too,” Sansa admitted, eliciting a surprised look from Robb. She continued to stroke Pain in the Butt’s back, from the nape of his neck down to his tail, feeling the way he arched into her hand. “Who _knows_ what sort of trouble he can get himself into if left to his own devices.”

***

“Sorry about dinner,” Sansa said as she set the saucer of milk up on her dresser where, hopefully, Pain in the Butt wouldn’t knock it over. He hadn’t touched it at all. Nor had he touched the dog food she’d offered, and they didn’t have any cat food on hand. Maybe he was just too stressed to eat. He kept pawing at her feet, running around in circles, trying to claw at things. “Poor guy,” she said as she picked him up and set him down on her bed. “You must really miss your owner, huh?”

He stared at her with those Theon-blue eyes.

“Well, you only have to put up with me for one night.” She reached out and stroked his head before climbing under the covers. “We’ll see if we can’t find someone who recognizes you tomorrow.”

She laid her head down on her pillow, and a moment later felt a weight on her chest. She opened her eyes to find Pain in the Butt staring intently at her. He let out a long, plaintive yowl. He obviously wanted something, but she had no idea what.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wish I could understand what you were trying to tell me.”

He deflated and seemed almost defeated as he crawled back to the foot of the bed.

“It’ll be alright.” She let out a yawn. It was late. Somewhere downstairs, their grandfather clock began to chime the midnight hour. “Everything will be alright.”

The pillow was very inviting, and she lay back down. Her eyes fluttered closed. Downstairs, the clock finished chiming. And just as she felt herself begin to slip away into sleep, she was jolted upright by a sudden weight on her legs, followed by the creaking of the bed and a groan. A very _human_ groan.

Her eyes snapped open, and in the darkness of her room, illuminated faintly by the lights from the street outside, she caught the shape of a person sitting at the end of her bed. Icy fingers of dread raced up her back. Was this real? Was this a dream? One of those sleep paralysis things she’d heard about? She certainly couldn’t seem to move.

The weight on the bed felt so real, though, and the figure was groaning. They seemed to be hunched over, as if they were in pain, but slowly they began to uncurl. Long legs stretched out over the side of the mattress, pale in the dark, and that was when Sansa realized this person was naked.

This was not a dream, and definitely not sleep paralysis, because at that point she bolted upright and screamed. The figure screamed too and fell over the side of the bed to the floor. There was a scrambling. Sansa grabbed the only thing on hand, her pillow, and jumped up, ready to pummel the intruder to a feathery death.

“What’s going on in here?” Her bedroom door slammed open and the light flicked on to reveal a disheveled-looking Robb. But not only him, but a very naked-looking Theon on the floor.

“Theon!?” Sansa cried.

“Theon!?” Robb echoed her disbelief. Then he seemed to take in the scene—a naked Theon in his sister’s bedroom, Sansa holding her pillow like a weapon, her screaming… A look of unrestrained fury came over his face. “You son of a bitch, what are you—?”

Theon threw up his hands. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Robb’s fists were clenched, and Sansa realized she needed to do something before he started throwing punches.

“No, Robb, it’s fine,” she said, dropping her pillow and hopping out of bed. “I was just…I had a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he doing in your room, Sansa?”

Sansa looked over her shoulder at Theon, who seemed just as confused as either of them. He was hurriedly trying to cover himself with her blankets. She turned back to Robb and set her shoulders. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business, Robb.”

His mouth dropped open.

Her face flushed hot, but she refused to break eye contact.

“R-right,” he stammered, backing up. “You’re pretty much an adult. It’s none of my business.” He grabbed the door handle. “Just…be safe, yeah? I’ve got condoms in my room if you—”

“Go, Robb!” Sansa cut him off. She was going to drop dead from embarrassment right now if he didn’t _go_.

He nodded and closed the door behind him. She waited until she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall before turning back to Theon, who had managed to wrap himself in her blankets.

“Alright.” She wagged her finger accusingly at him. “What are you doing in my room? Naked, might I add. Don’t you know what time it is? I swear, if you’ve been out drinking, then you really owe me for covering for you just now.”

Theon blinked and stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “Am I a person again?”

“What?”

“I’m not…you can understand me?”

“Not very well.” She folded her arms over her chest.

Slowly, he stood. He seemed pretty wobbly on his feet, lending credence to her theory that he’d been out drinking and had somehow managed to sneak into her room, probably mistook her window for Robb’s. He staggered towards her, and she found herself rushing in to help him to stand.

“Something _very_ strange is going on, Sansa.”

“Tell me about it. You gave me a scare. You probably scared my poor cat half to death.” She looked around the room. Where was Pain in the Butt? Probably cowering in fear under the bed.

“Sansa.” She felt hands on her shoulder and Theon turned her to face him. His eyes were wide and earnest. And very blue-green, with flecks of grey. “That cat… _I_ was that cat.”

“What?” she guffawed.

“I don’t know how, I—there was this woman dressed in red and I—I think I pissed her off real bad. But she—and the last thing I remember was she was—and then I wasn’t myself anymore. I was a cat, Sansa.” He shook her, as if that would make anything he was saying make sense.

Okay, he wasn’t drunk. He was obviously on drugs of some kind.

“I was that cat,” he repeated. “You called me Pain in the Butt. I’m not going to forget that, by the way. Better than Lemon Cake, but still.”

“Wait, how do you know any of that?”

“Because I was there,” he said through gritted teeth. “Robb was eating a goddamn peanut butter jelly sandwich for dinner and I was sitting on your lap. You want more proof? You said I’m a nice guy, and Robb was right. It _would_ be the first time anyone’s ever called me that.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wha—?”

“Please, Sansa, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve been trying to get someone to understand me all day. I thought I was going to be stuck like that forever. And granted, if I had to spend the rest of my life as a cat, I’d rather spend it as _your_ cat, but it seems like whatever it was that red woman did has worn off.” His eyes widened. “What if it’s only temporary? What if I turn back into a human at midnight and then back into a cat when the sun rises or something? What if I have to spend the rest of my life like this? Promise me you’ll take care of me when I’m a cat, Sansa, promise me you—”

She put her hand over his mouth, just to stop him talking. “Theon, calm down.”

His wide eyes said he was far from calm.

She took a deep breath. “I believe you.”

“Oo do?” he said, muffled around her hand.

She nodded. _Something_ was going on. She wasn’t convinced Theon had actually been a cat, even though it seemed like he’d heard her private conversation with Robb earlier. Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe Pain in the Butt was hiding under the bed and was so traumatized he’d refuse to come out ever again. Well, whatever _maybe_ there might be, one thing was obvious: Theon needed her help.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s just deal with one thing at a time. Right now, you need some clothes. I’ll see if I can get something of Robb’s out of the hamper.”

He sat down on her bed with a shell-shocked expression. “O…okay.”

“And I’ll make some tea while I’m at it,” she added. “Your nerves look like they’re frayed.”

“A bit.” He managed a small smile.

“Good. Then you just stay here. I really don’t want to explain why you’re naked in my bedroom at midnight to anyone else.” Gods forbid her mother.

She turned to go.

“Sansa.”

She paused at the doorway and looked back.

“Thanks,” he said, and his smile was wider. The unguarded smile she liked so much. “I’ve always felt like you’re someone who would be there for me too.”


	4. Anchored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horsetamer5 asked:
> 
> _Could you maybe do a chapter where Theon has a violent nightmare and Yara comforts him after?_
> 
> More Yara comforting in her own Yara way...

He didn’t realize he was still screaming until he felt a firm grip on his shoulder and a voice screaming back at him, “It’s alright, Theon! You were dreaming. It was just a dream.”

The world faded into focus, and he was aware of Yara standing over him, shaking him. She loosened her grip as his screaming fell away, dissolving into whimpers instead. He slumped forward into her chest. There were tears on his cheek. He was so ashamed, but he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop the wracking sobs that rattled his frame more than her shaking had.

“Theon.” Her voice was quiet now. No more screaming, from either of them. “It’s alright. It was just a dream.”

He shook his head. “No, no, Yara, it—it was happening again. I was there.”

“No.” Her voice took on just a hint of its former edge. “You’re here, Theon, with me.”

He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, as if he could dig out the images still floating there. But the images weren’t in his eyes. They were much deeper than that.

He was startled to find arms wrapping around him, hugging him, and Yara leaning her chin on the top of his head. “He can’t hurt you, Theon. You escaped from that place and you made your way back home. You’re here and you’re safe.”

Her words were meant to be soothing, but she had the wrong idea. Theon shook his head and pulled out of her grasp. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t about Ramsay,” he admitted as shame washed over him, burning in that deep place inside of him he couldn’t reach with his hands.

Yara cocked her head. “Then what?”

He gnawed on his lip. He couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Theon.” There was obvious frustration in her voice as she sat on the bed. “Will you just tell me?”

“The…” He tried to talk, but his mouth had filled with thick, sticky saliva. He swallowed around it and tried again. “The boys.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “The boys?”

“The farmer’s boys. The ones I…you saw their bodies when you came to Winterfell to try to bring me home.”

Her eyebrows rose as understanding dawned. “The bodies you tried to pass off as the Stark boys?”

He nodded miserably.

“That’s what had you screaming?”

“I killed them, Yara. They were just boys and I killed them.”

Yara let out a weary sigh. “You wouldn’t be the first Ironborn to murder a child, Theon.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He curled up, knees to his chest, and covered his head with his hands. He wished he was a crab that could draw back into its shell. He wanted to be a barnacle at the bottom of the ocean.

A warm hand touched his shoulder and he flinched. Rolled over onto his side, with his back facing Yara.

“Theon.” Her voice was almost…soft. “Would you talk to me?”

“I didn’t kill them, Yara,” he whimpered. His voice and tears were muffled into the pillow. “I had one of my men kill them. It wasn’t even my idea. But I gave the order to kill them anyway and I…I wasn’t even strong enough to do it myself. You were right when you came to Winterfell, when you told me I was weak for killing them. I wanted to be strong, but I—I still see them, what I had my men do to their bodies so nobody would recognize them.”

“Is that what your nightmare was about?”

He nodded against the pillow, even though she probably wouldn’t be able to see.

“Ned Stark…had this greatsword. Valyrian steel. It was called Ice. I carried it for him, during executions. It felt like he wanted me to know it could be my head on the chopping block.”

“Fucker,” Yara snarled.

Theon shook his head. That wasn’t what he was getting at. “In my dream… _I’m_ the one who kills the farmer’s boys. With my own hands. Using Ned Stark’s sword. I can feel it, in my hands…” He looked down at his own hands, with the missing and maimed fingers. “It’s so heavy, Yara, in my dreams. I can barely lift it, and when I bring it down on the first boy’s head, it’s…I make a worse mess than I did with Ser Rodrik. And then the second boy…I want to stop myself, but I can’t.”

“Because it’s done, Theon. You can’t take it back, even in your dreams.”

His body went rigid as he felt her hand on the back of his head, running through his hair.

“You did what you thought was best in the moment.” Her voice was worryingly level, but her hand was gentle. “It turned out to be the wrong thing. If you’d had better counsel, perhaps you would have made a better choice.” He couldn’t be sure if she meant that as a reproach, but he felt it all the same, the way he had thrown her advice back in her face at every opportunity. “Perhaps not,” she added. “But it’s done. You made the call. Being a man—being Ironborn—means making tough calls…and then living with the consequences, both good _and_ bad.”

“I’ve only ever made bad choices.” He half-turned to face her again, propping himself up on one elbow. She was still there, still sitting on his bed. Her weight dipped the mattress. “I’ve broken _everything_ I’ve ever touched.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not everything.”

Her face was unreadable, and it frightened him. It frightened him that she expected him to move forward, that she trusted him to make decisions again. For so long, perhaps his entire life, others had been making his decisions for him, deciding where he would live, how he would live, _if_ he would live. And the one thing he’d tried to do on his own, the _one_ thing…well, he couldn’t possibly have cocked it up worse than he did.

“Theon,” Yara said, and her voice pulled him back from the dark thoughts swallowing him. “I don’t know what to say to you to make it all better.”

“I don’t know either,” he admitted. “I…I’m sorry I woke you. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

And at that, she actually smiled. A kind of sad little smile. “I don’t know what I can _say_ , but I know what I can _do_. I can wake you up when your dreams get bad.”

He _looked_ at her. Looked at her sitting there on the bed, one leg crossed over her knee, hands in her lap, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. Her weight solid and real next to him.

“I can do that much, baby brother.”

He’d been having nightmares since he was a child, since before they’d even taken him from Pyke. How many nights had he woken in a cold sweat at Winterfell? First from nightmares where his head was on the chopping block, and then when _he_ was the one doing the chopping. And then the nightmares where a demon with pale eyes lurked in the shadows, pulling at his skin, ripping it off, tearing, burning. How many nights had he woken up in the kennels, or perhaps somewhere worse, only to find that his nightmares were real, that he had not escaped them by waking up?

But here…he was awake. And it was better than being asleep. It was better. For the first time in a long time.

“Promise me?” He forced his voice to not be so small. “Promise me you’ll be there to wake me up when my dreams get bad?” He held out his hand.

She looked surprised for a moment, then smiled and clasped his wrist as he clasped hers back, an old sailor’s sign of brotherhood. She was solid and real and very much of the waking world. An anchor. The thing he needed most.

“I promise,” she said.

He gave her a resolute nod. “That’s more than enough.”


	5. Donned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midnightfable asked: 
> 
> _Could you perhaps write a scenario in which Theon is there to support Sansa after a rough day (and/or perhaps encountering a personal reminder of her trauma or a bad dream)?_
> 
> I guess this also kinda doubles as a fix-it fic for Season 8.

Sansa wanted to cry. Gods help her, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, wanted to cry.

More than that, she wanted to scream. She wanted to pull at her hair. She wanted to curl up in a ball under her covers and not come out until winter was over.

But of course she couldn’t do that. The people had taken to calling her the Lady Stoneheart, a queen as hard and frozen as winter itself, who had grappled with the Iron Throne and Southron nobles to restore the North as its own sovereign kingdom. A queen of such strength could not cry or scream, not over the absentminded gesture of some Northern lord. Her people could not afford to see any weakness from her. _She_ could not afford to see any weakness from herself.

The most she would allow herself was to continue sitting at her counsel table long after the lords had quit the meeting, resting her forehead in her hands.

But it was so…heavy.

The crown. The urge to scream, building in her chest.

“Your Grace.”

Her head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. Hinges creaked more in the cold. Not a door in Winterfell opened or closed without it being heard.

“Pardon, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “No, that’s quite alright. Come in, Ser Greyjoy.”

“I told you.” Theon pushed the door open wider with his shoulder; both his hands were occupied. “You don’t need to call me ‘Ser Greyjoy’ when we’re alone, Your Grace.”

“And I told you.” She stood to greet him. “You don’t need to call me ‘Your Grace’ when we’re alone.”

He offered her a fond little smile as he made his way across the room, carrying a wooden bowl in either hand. “I heard your meeting didn’t go so well.”

Her back stiffened. “You heard?”

“Just an offhand comment from one of the men,” he said. “Reading between the lines…I thought you might need some soup.” He set one of the bowls down in front of her, steaming and warm. “Am I right in thinking so?”

He knew her, better than anyone else alive. The thought that he’d almost not made it through the Long Night to be here by her side…no, it didn’t bear thinking on. Bran, Arya, Jon, even Brienne of Tarth…everyone had left her. But Theon…Theon was still here.

In answer to his question, she took her seat, and he sat down across from her, cradling his own soup. She wrapped her hands around the outside of her bowl, feeling the warmth seeping in through her fingers. It was odd that this little ritual of theirs, from the calm before that awful night, had come to bring her such comfort. She imagined it must bring him some comfort as well. That in the midst of all the terror of that night, they’d found a moment of quiet and peace and…dare she say it?…happiness. Sitting with him like this, just the two of them, always brought her back to that time.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she just needed him to be there. But today, perhaps she did need to talk.

“It was such a small thing,” she said as she lifted her spoon. “I thought I controlled myself very well, but apparently I didn’t if the men are talking.”

“It was nothing,” he said. “Lord Manderly just mentioned that Lord Umber was likely to lose his hand the next time he was so familiar with you.” He picked up his own spoon. “He still can, if you want. I can take it off him myself.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She took a sip before adding, “Thank you, though.” The soup kept getting thinner as winter wore on, but the warmth of it was still satisfying.

“Did he touch you?” Theon asked seriously.

“Well, he just…” She made an exaggerated motion of brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, demonstrating what Lord Umber had done.

“He should lose his hand.”

“No, it’s fine. I think he very quickly realized he’d overstepped his boundaries with his Queen.” She sighed wearily. “He never would have done such a thing to either Robb or my father when he was serving them. Or even my mother.” But then, her mother had been a married woman, after all.

“Did it—him touching you like that—remind you of…?” Theon trailed off.

Sansa took another sip of soup before shaking her head. “No, not of _him_. Actually, it reminded me of…” She felt her face and neck flush. “It reminded me of Littlefinger. How he would…be overly familiar with me. Putting a hand on my shoulder. Touching my face.”

Theon’s face darkened.

She looked down into her soup. “I think he—Petyr—meant to warm me up to him, but it always felt like…like _he_ felt as if he could touch me whenever he wanted, because I was just another one of his things.” The watery broth rippled from her breath. “It reminded me of a time when I didn’t own myself. I was just this _thing_ passed around from one person to another…”

“I’m sorry,” Theon said. He laid his hand out on the table between them, offering it.

The gesture wasn’t lost on Sansa, that he was asking permission to touch her, and she reached out to take his hand, hugging it tightly in her own. Even under his gloves, she could still make out the missing finger there.

“It’s such a silly thing,” she mused. “Such a silly little thing to get upset about.”

“No.” It was his turn to shake his head. “You are Queen in the North, Sansa, and your subjects should not be treating you as anything less. Are you sure you don’t want me to cut off Lord Umber’s hand?”

“Quite,” she said. She may be Lady Stoneheart, but she wasn’t the Mad Queen. She wouldn’t rule through cruelty. Theon had told her, on the night of her coronation, of how he had sought to rule Winterfell through cruelty and how bitterly he regretted traveling that path. She’d appreciated his earnestness, but she’d also seen what cruel rulers wrought with her own eyes. “I will be more…curt the next time he or anyone else tries something like that again.”

Theon smiled, and there was pride in that smile that warmed Sansa more than most anything.

“Thank you, Theon,” she said as she finished the dregs of the soup. “Truly. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you looking out for me.” Perhaps the only man she would ever allow to “look out for her” ever again.

Theon pushed his unfinished bowl aside. He rarely finished his meals, even though he was worryingly thin. “Sansa, you’re Queen in the North. You’re the strongest woman in the North or any of the other Six Kingdoms. And that includes my sister. I am happy to serve you in any way I can, but you certainly don’t _need_ me.”

“Well, maybe _need_ is subjective.” She grabbed his bowl and pushed it back towards him. Sometimes, with enough coaxing, she could get him to finish. “If, for example, Arya had arrived a moment too late and the Night King’s lance had…Gods forbid…” It didn’t bear thinking on. “If I couldn’t have you by my side, I suppose I could survive on my own.” She had no doubt about that. She had survived on her own for so long. “But how empty and painful would that survival be? It’s the difference between living in perpetual winter and knowing that spring will come again.”

He looked down at the bowl, averting his eyes. He did not take well to any praise from her, and she suspected he felt he did not deserve it.

“Theon,” she said. “Ser Theon Greyjoy.” She picked up his discarded spoon and, gently prying his hand open, placed it in his palm. “If I can accept that I am a strong woman, then you can accept that you are a good man. And that having you by my side means everything to me.”

He nodded and gave her a halfhearted smile. “As you say, Your Grace, Queen Sansa Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North.” And that halfhearted smile turned into a smirk.

Sansa sat straight in her chair, donning her more regal posture. “I am glad we understand one another. Now, as your Queen, I order you to finish your soup.”


	6. Recovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valtharis said:
> 
> _Would it be possible to have one where Yara rescues Theon before he's about to be tortured at all? Maybe she decided to follow him shortly after he left, since he very clearly needed to be taken under the wing of a real Ironborn._
> 
> If you want to see another Yara|Asha intervenes scenario, you can check out one of my older series, [Second Chances](https://archiveofourown.org/series/208808). It's more of a Throbb story, but Yara|Asha is a recurring character and constant presence.
> 
> Now, more squid sibling bonding...ahoy!

Theon’s head pounded. His eyes cracked open to harsh daylight and blue sky overhead. He couldn’t remember where he was, but he was vaguely aware of being jostled. Every rocking gesture brought pain blossoming in bright white flashes behind his eyes. With a groan, he sat up. God, it felt like his skull was an egg ready to crack.

“Awake back there?”

His head swung at the voice. Too quickly. His vision went black. The world spun. The contents of his stomach came surging up. He slumped over onto his hands and knees and vomited messily all over the wooden platform.

Wooden platform. Right. As his vision cleared, he realized he was in a rough sort of cart. Which would explain the jostling. The cart was being driven by a horse, and the horse was being driven by Yara. Who was looking over her shoulder at him with a sort of smirk on her face.

Theon blinked. “Yar…a? Wha…?”

It came rushing back to him. The night of the siege at Winterfell. The fireplace, a cup of ale in his hand, and Maester Luwen urging him to flee. Knowing it was too late for that. He’d made his bed and intended to sleep in it. Imagining what he was going to do to that God-damned trumpeter come battle in the morning, knowing, in his gut, it would be his last morning. His eyes feeling heavy. The urge to sleep. And then… He couldn’t remember.

“What happened?” he asked, pushing himself up to his knees and away from his own pool of sick. “Did we win?” Was it possible? Against all odds?

Yara snorted. “Hardly, brother. It seems your men weren’t as eager to die for you as you’d hoped. Smart men.”

Theon was having trouble keeping up with her. The pain in his head…he’d been betrayed by his own men? “Cowards!” Theon hissed.

“Smart. Men,” Yara reiterated. “Dagmer told me he had to convince the others to slip something into your drink, rather than strike you over the head and turn you over to the attackers, try to trade you for free passage out of the North. Very smart man, that one. As if the Northmen would just _let_ them walk out of here. Once you were out cold, the old maester showed them the escape tunnels.”

The image of them dragging his limp body through the tunnels of Winterfell made him want to retch again. His stomach held, though, as he set his jaw.

“Then what are _you_ doing here? I suppose it’s just a coincidence that you happened to be here to see my humiliation?”

She shot him a quick glance, equal parts annoyance and amusement. “I never left, little brother. I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses. Told your men where to meet up with us, should they ever come to theirs.”

A likely story. “Why? So you could gloat at my failure?”

“So you would still be alive for me to gloat _at_ ,” she said sharply.

Theon sank back on his haunches. “So, that’s that then?” he muttered. “I return to the Iron Islands a larger disappointment than when I left.” He looked out at the forest passing by them. Last night, he’d made peace with dying here, in this green place far from the sea. But of course Yara had to rip even that away from him. She couldn’t stand to see even a shred of his dignity left intact. “I wish you’d left me to die.”

“Do you?” She cocked her head. “Is that truly what you wish, baby brother?”

“It is!” he barked. “At least I could die as a man.”

“You can still live as one. You just have to start acting like one.”

A mirthless laugh bubbled up in his throat. “How? When I have thrown away everything?” He sat with his back facing Yara, so he could see behind them. The rutted road they’d traveled on. The trees and grass disturbed by their passing. “Everything that makes me a man in the eyes of the Ironborn, everything that makes me a man in the eyes of the Northmen. My strength. My honor. My…you don’t know what I threw away, Yara.” He buried his head in his hands to keep his laughter from turning into sobs. “I threw away… _everything_. For nothing.”

The cart continued to bounce along the uneven road. The sounds of the wheels turning and the horse’s hooves kept rhythm with the pounding in his head.

“Alright,” Yara said. “You threw it all away. That just means you can start from a clean slate.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Yara.”

The cart crawled to a halt.

“Theon.”

He didn’t lift his head. It felt too heavy.

Her footsteps as she hopped down from the driver’s seat and came around the cart thundered in his ears. Her boots crunching on rock. He winced as she came closer.

“Theon,” she repeated. Her voice was mercifully soft. “There’s a reason I had the men go on ahead of us.”

He did look up then, though it was an effort.

“Don’t worry. I had my best men stay behind to pull up the rear, in case the Northmen try to follow us. They should be about an hour behind. I told them to give us plenty of space, because we need time to speak in private.” She placed her hand on his knee. It was a strangely familiar gesture that reminded him of the story she’d told him back in Winterfell, about how only she had been able to stop his crying as an infant. “I know you don’t believe it—I know you don’t _want_ to believe it—but I have your best interests at heart.”

She was right. He didn’t believe her.

It must have shown on his face, because she let out a frustrated sigh. “You know our father is a cunt, right?” she said. “It’s not worth it to throw your life away for his approval. _No one’s_ approval is worth that.”

“What are you even talking about?” he scoffed.

“You _know_ what I’m talking about.”

No, he didn’t. He hadn’t a clue. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

“You care too much, Theon.”

“I _care_ too much?”

“About what others think.”

“Oh, is _that_ my greatest crime?” he sneered. “Of all the things I’ve done, _caring_ is the worst, is it?” The pressure in his head was building, and the…emotion he couldn’t name…was like a blacksmith’s hammer against the inside of his skull. “Why is _caring_ such a crime?” he snapped. Anger. He’d call that emotion anger. Even if it wasn’t. Not entirely. If he could vent _that_ , then maybe the God-damned pounding in his head would go away. “Why can’t I care about what my own flesh and blood thinks of me? Why can’t I care about what the people I’m _supposed to be leading_ think of me? Why can’t I care about what the Starks…?” He did trail off after that. _That_ was too much. Too far.

Yara would be disgusted to think he cared for the Starks.

“Alright then, I misspoke,” Yara said, slowly, and with more deliberation that he’d ever seen from her. “You…wear your heart on your sleeve. That’s always been your problem. Ever since you were a little boy.”

Theon scoffed. He rather thought he’d always done a pretty bang-up job of hiding his feelings. You could ask anyone in Winterfell, well before he’d taken it for himself, and they’d tell you what a callous ass he truly was. Well…except Robb, perhaps.

She couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking, but she seemed to guess it all the same. “You probably think you had the Northmen fooled. That’s because the Northmen are easy to fool. They see what they want to see. The Ironborn are different.”

He started when she touched his face, but it was gentle. And there was no trace of a smirk on her lips. The emotion pounding in his head and veins surged, but it wasn’t anger. Not entirely. It was something else. Something he didn’t know what to do with.

“No one has ever taught you how to be Ironborn,” she went on. “But there _is_ Ironborn spirit inside of you. You are stubborn. You are headstrong. You don’t give up when you should. These aren’t always good things, but they _are_ Ironborn things. You are not hopeless. If I truly believed you were hopeless, I would not even try. But I do try, because I _care_ about you, Theon. I _care_.”

He just looked at her, not understanding. Not knowing what to do or say.

“It’s not a crime to care, baby brother. But you have to be careful what you care about, and what you allow others to know you care about.”

“Yara, I—”

“Shh!” she hushed, and reached for her belt, from which she pulled out a flask. “You don’t know how to do any of that, not in the Ironborn way, because nobody’s taught you.” She uncapped the flask and handed it to him.

He took a drink. Whiskey. And not good whiskey at that. But the burn of it down his throat did drive away the lingering taste of vomit. It also dulled the throbbing in his head, if only slightly.

“Better?” Yara asked.

He nodded, reluctantly, and handed the flask back.

She shook her head. “Keep it.”

He nodded again and tucked it into a pocket.

“Here’s what’s going to happen when we meet up with the men,” Yara went on, still speaking in that deliberate way that Theon was beginning to find a bit unnerving. “You’re going to be put together. You can continue to be angry with me—it might even give you some credence—but the fact is, I’ve given you the perfect opportunity to save your life _and_ your reputation. Nobody doubts that you would have gotten yourself and every man under your leadership killed—or worse—so they can’t call you a coward. Not to your face, and not to mine. I’ll make sure of it, do you hear?”

_But I am a coward_ , Theon thought, but didn’t say.

“So be mad at me all you want—to yourself, in front of the men, so long as you don’t question me in front of them. Understand?”

He gave a sullen nod.

“Do you? Understand?”

“I understand,” he said.

“What I mean is that, starting today, you’re going to be under my tutelage.”

“Your tutelage?” He frowned in confusion.

“Yes, baby brother.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I told you, the problem is that nobody has taught you how to be Ironborn. So I guess it’s up to me. I’ll teach you.” She cuffed him lightly on the chin and smirked. “I’ll teach you how to be Ironborn.”


	7. Unmoored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theonsfavouritetoy let me choose from two options:
> 
> _On Dragonstone, i always wanted a scene where Theon kinda apologizes to Jon for being such a prick when they were kids (of the teasing is a sign of affection kind maybe?) and Jon forgetting his anger and they reminisce about growing up together - somewhere between their meeting on the beach and Theon leaving for Yara. Or Winterfell, like, something like a talk of the two on the eve of battle and Jon telling Theon he's brave and welcome home and such. fuck i want them to hug lol eg, Jon being glad to see Theon has come to help and being the fluffy little bean that he is if he forgets all the dour stuff for a moment._
> 
> I couldn't decide, so I combined them!
> 
> There are a few joking references to incest and one comment that could be construed as internalized homophobia. But mostly it's just the boys hugging it out.

“Oh, apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude, my lord.” Theon took a few startled steps backwards. “I’ll…come back later.” He turned to go.

“Theon, wait.” Jon raised his hand. “It’s fine. You’re not intruding.” He looked around the empty courtyard. The sounds of men preparing for battle drifted in from the battlements, muffled, but not enough for you to entirely forget they were there. Still, the weirwood was probably the quietest place in Winterfell tonight.

Theon took a tentative step through the stone archway, as if he didn’t entirely believe Jon. “I don’t want to disturb you, my lord.”

“You don’t need to call me your lord, you know,” Jon said.

“You’re the Queen’s consort, and I am pledged to the Queen. Therefore, you are my lord.”

Consort? Was that what they were calling him? Jon grinned, half in amusement, half in discomfort. Even without knowing…what he knew now, it made him uncomfortable to think of the men talking about him and Dany.

“Truly,” Theon continued, pointing back to the archway, “my business here isn’t that important. I just wanted to check the area one last time. To see where my men might be best placed for when…” He trailed off.

_For when…_

“Then it is important.” Jon made a vague motioning gesture with his hand. “Please, come in.”

Theon hesitated again, then nodded and entered the courtyard, eyes darting around. Jon couldn’t tell if it was a nervous force of habit or if he was judging the best tactical positions should the Night King breach their walls. _When_ the Night King breached their walls. 

“Thank you,” Jon said.

Theon’s eyes flickered to Jon, uncertainly.

“For offering to protect Bran the way you did. It was very…honorable.”

Theon cracked a bit of his signature lopsided smile. “You don’t need to humor me, Snow.” Jon had never been so happy to be called by his bastard name. “I’m no protector that anyone deserves. But I’m here. And I can at least make my last act in this world a good one.”

“Who’s to say it will be your last?”

Theon snorted at that. His earlier caginess was leaving him, bit by bit.

Jon held out his hand, offering all the possibilities the future might hold. “We might win.”

Theon shook his head, like a parent watching a child’s antics. “It must really be the end of the world if you are the optimist and I am the bringer of doom and gloom.” The smile faded from his lips. “I won’t see the morning. I feel it deeply in my bones.”

He studied Jon out of the corner of his eye, and Jon knew what he was thinking. _You died, once._ But he didn’t ask the question everyone else did. Perhaps he did not want to know what was on the other side. Jon thought the answer might give him some comfort, but he was glad Theon did not ask all the same.

“I never wanted to die here,” Theon said, breaking eye contact with Jon and sweeping his gaze instead around the snow-covered yard. There was neither fear nor calculation in his gaze. Just an appreciation for where they were. The significance of it. “All those years, when it was a real possibility, I thought how I would hate to die so far from the sea. But now…I find I don’t mind the thought so much.”

Jon found himself looking around too, taking in the weirwood tree, with its morbid face, thinking how it had always sort of frightened him as a child. The times he and Theon and Robb had played in this yard together. Knocking wooden swords together—Theon always hitting Jon harder than he hit Robb. Playing knight and bandit. That one time Theon had… Jon found himself smiling in spite of himself. Gods, he’d been mortified, worrying that it meant he was now married to Theon, because people who kissed under the weirwood were married afterwards. At least in his child’s mind, that’s how it worked.

He _wished_ he could go back to when his worst fear was that he had accidentally married Theon Greyjoy.

“It always seems to come back to this place,” he said.

“The Starks have a way of pulling you back to them.”

Jon’s eyes went back to Theon. His posture had changed in just the few minutes since he’d appeared at the weirwood entrance, from hunched over to straight, shoulders back, jaw set. It wasn’t his old cockiness coming back. It was a different sort of confidence.

“Truthfully, I’m glad I found you alone,” he said, eyes finally coming back around to meet Jon, so they were looking at each other. Eye to eye. “I wanted to apologize.”

Jon shook his head. “I already told you on Dragonstone—”

“I meant to _you_ ,” Theon cut him off. “For the way I treated you all those years.”

Jon hadn’t expected that, though he supposed he should have. If his mind had wandered back to the past, it stood to reason Theon’s had as well. “We were children.”

“You should know children know much more than we give them credit for. And I knew full well how deep my barbs struck you. The deeper, the more enjoyment I got from it. There’s no excuse for that.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. The snow crunched under his boots. “It’s forgiven, Theon. There’s no use dwelling on it.”

Theon let out a long breath. It was dark in the courtyard—they needed to save the braziers for when the dead came—but Jon could see it anyway, floating like a ghost on the air and dissipating. “I hope you realize it was jealousy.”

“Huh?” Jon wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“I was terribly jealous of you. Of the attention you got from Robb.”

“Oh.”

“You never realized?”

“I…” Jon paused. “I think I did.” It was only true now that he said it out loud. He felt like, deep down, he’d always known that was what it was about. Or suspected. But back then, the idea that Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, would be jealous of a motherless bastard boy had seemed absurd.

“You know that’s why I kissed you that time, right?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon lied.

“Oh, come now, I know it was your first. I planned it that way, so Robb wouldn’t be your first kiss.”

“What?” Jon guffawed. “Robb? He was my _brother_.” _Cousin_ , he corrected himself. Then corrected himself again. No, brother. Even if blood didn’t tie them as closely as Jon had always believed, he and Robb were true brothers. He could never think any other way. “And a boy.”

Theon shrugged. “The Targaryens married brothers and sisters together for hundreds of years.”

“We’re not Targaryens,” Jon said, and winced at the irony of his own words.

Theon didn’t seem to notice, though. When he spoke again, his voice was in the midway point between fondness and regret that made up nostalgia. “I’ll never know why Robb bothered with me at all. He was always too good for me. You were more on his level. I think that’s why I took it into my head that you might…”

“Thank you for thinking I was on Robb’s level,” Jon said with an awkward laugh.

“What? It’s true. You’re a Stark through and through.”

A few hours ago, Jon would have taken that as the compliment it was meant to be. But now, knowing he was perhaps even less of a Stark than when he’d been a bastard…

This time, Theon did seem to notice the change in his demeanor, but he misread it. “Robb would be proud of you, you know. I’m not sure I’m…” He glanced at the ground. “I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to speak on his behalf, but I do know that he would be proud of you. It’s fitting that you’re carrying on his mantle. As King in the North, I mean.”

“No.” Jon didn’t want to hear it. “No, I’m not the King in the North. Not anymore.” And no one in Winterfell would let him forget it, either. How he’d abandoned his crown. Bent the knee. “Robb deserves a better successor.”

He was startled by the crunching of boots in the snow, and looking up to find Theon within arm’s reach of him. Silence passed between them, only the howling of the wind and the men preparing for battle on the walls.

“Robb was a good man, Jon,” Theon said at last. “Better than the likes of me, by far. But he wasn’t perfect. He wouldn’t have trusted me if he was.”

“That’s not—”

“The point I’m trying to make,” Theon interrupted, stepping even closer, “is that Robb trusted too much, and refused to compromise.”

Jon couldn’t deny that hearing Theon talk that way about Robb rankled him, even though it was true.

“It’s what made Robb…Robb,” Theon continued, and the overwhelming fondness in his voice calmed Jon’s nerves. 

Of course, Jon and Sansa had wept over Robb’s death, but they hadn’t shared many memories together. The two of them, with Robb. But Theon…in some ways, Theon had known Robb best, had seen his insecurities, his flaws, the parts he dared not let Ned or Cat see.

“You did what you needed to do. You made sure your people survived this long.”

And Theon also knew a thing or two about surviving. They both did. Everyone who was here now, standing against the army of the dead, did. But it was nice to hear it. After all the doubts he’d had, about bending the knee and joining with Daenerys…it was good to hear from _someone_ that he’d made the right decision.

Theon’s hand made a jerking motion, like he was going to reach out and touch Jon. But it quickly returned to his side.

“No one can fault you for siding with the Dragon Queen,” he said, ignoring the abandoned gesture, though Jon wished he would reach out and touch him. He felt so unmoored. “She cares for justice. She seems to care for her people. And...” Theon smiled. That old smile of his. “She is not too hard to look at.”

And it was almost as if the years hadn’t passed at all. As if Jon hadn’t left for the Wall and Robb hadn’t left to wage war and Ned and Cat and Rickon were all still alive within the walls of a Winterfell that had never burned down. He was here with Theon, listening to his inappropriate jokes with Robb. Or shocked, at ten years old, as the older boy kissed him on the lips and ran away before Jon even knew how to react.

“It’s fitting,” Theon went on, “that you found someone as pretty as yourself.”

But Jon couldn’t laugh. _Dany is my blood_. He wanted to scream it. _My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. I just found out my entire life—everything I thought I’d earned for myself—is a lie. I’m the heir to the Iron Throne through an accident of birth and I don’t want it!_

He almost did. Almost screamed it. Almost spilled everything to Theon.

“Jon?” Theon’s voice was full of worry.

Jon blinked and realized he’d been off in his head. Thinking about the past. The future. And not the future he _should_ be thinking about—the one where the Night King and an army of the dead were marching to end them all. His mind should be on the battle to come, not…whatever may or may not come after that.

“I’m fine.” He wiped at his eyes, because they were beginning to sting from the cold. “I was just…thinking about Robb.”

Theon’s face grew serious, and Jon felt bad for lying. “I think about him a lot too.” His voice was distant. His mind wasn’t where it should be either. “I think about…” He sighed again. There was no ghosted breath this time. Or if there was, Jon didn’t see it. Just Theon turning his head, looking out towards the wall, towards the night.

“You think about how you should have been there,” Jon finished for him.

Theon swung his head around, looking a bit startled.

“I do too,” Jon admitted. “All the time.”

Theon’s voice was a tiny whisper. “I should have died with him.”

Jon had often thought the same. How he hadn’t been there when Robb had needed him most. But if he’d been there, even if he’d somehow managed to change Robb’s fate, then he wouldn’t have been where he needed to be. Possibly none of them would be here now, the last stand of the living against the tide of the dead.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, and _he_ reached out to touch Theon, a gloved hand brushing against his cheek. Theon went still but did not pull away. His eyes reflected the torches on the wall, tiny beads of light in the darkness. “ _I’m_ glad you’re here, Theon. Whatever the Long Night brings…I’m glad you’re here.”


	8. Moved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AxlotlHeart said: 
> 
> _I’d love to see Yara rescuing Theon at some point mid-torture, but unlike the show he actually does go with her because he isn’t quite as incredibly fucked up yet._
> 
> Okay, this scenario was completely inspired by non-book-reader comments during Season 3 that Theon didn't deserve to be helped by "that nice, young man," before they knew who Ramsay really was.

“Yara?”

She’d known he’d likely not be the cocky boy she’d left behind in Winterfell, but even still, seeing the way he held back from the light, the fear in his tiny voice—like a child calling out for his mother in the dark—hurt her.

“Yes, it’s me, baby brother.” She surged out of the shadows to reveal herself, watched as he briefly flinched before recognizing her. Then, in an instant, he was throwing himself at her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her shoulder, and she had no choice but to hold him or let him slump to the floor. She held him. God, but he smelled awful, caked in dirt and blood and any number of other foul things. But she held him anyway, let him blubber into her chest.

“Yara, you were right. You were right about everything. I should have listened to you. All along I should have listened to you.”

She patted his back and let him ramble, with not an ounce of satisfaction. There was no vindication to be had here. Just disgust. At him, but mostly herself for failing him.

He clung to her for a long time, and might have continued clinging, but she eventually took him by the shoulders and pried him off, as gently as she could. There were tears in his eyes and his lip trembled. He _looked_ like a child in that moment.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“I…” He didn’t say any more. He wasn’t well. She could imagine what the Northmen had done to him while he was in their “care.”

“Do you require a maester?”

He shook his head.

She looked over her shoulder to Wex, who gave a small shrug but then also shook his head.

“Alright,” she said. She might need specifics later—the smell of blood coming from him was stronger than even the smell of piss and vomit—but for now she was content to take their word that his wounds didn’t need immediate attention. Her brother was alive, and mostly in one piece. What he needed now was rest and food. She didn’t imagine the Northmen had seen fit to feed to him well. “Thank you, Wex,” she said. “Would you inform the cooks to send something up for my brother? We’ll be in my quarters.”

Wex nodded and stepped around them, carrying his torch.

Theon watched him go.

“Wex Pyke,” Yara said. “He jumped when I asked for volunteers to rescue you.”

“Volunteer _s_?” Theon asked, putting an emphasis on the _s_. The unspoken question: _Only one offered to come?_

Yara didn’t have the time or patience to assure him. “The truth is, I would have gone myself,” she said, putting her best spin on it. “But I needed someone inconspicuous to infiltrate the Dreadfort if I had any hope of getting you out of there.”

“The Dreadfort?” Theon rubbed at his arm. “Is that where I was?”

“You didn’t know where they were holding you?”

“They wouldn’t say…” He looked around at the damp stones of the arched tunnel closing in around them. “And was Wex telling me the truth about bringing me to Deepwood Motte?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ve been holding it quite well.” She clapped his shoulder, felt him jump a little, and winced. “Don’t worry, brother. You’re safe now.”

“Safe,” he repeated.

“Yes. Now, let’s get you some clean clothes.”

***

Whatever the Northmen had done to Theon, it had made him a better listener. He sat at his spot at the table, quiet and out of the way, but Yara knew he was listening.

There were times when she wasn’t sure that Wex had returned the right brother to her. This one was too quiet, too reserved. He would voice his thoughts to her in private, but she had to goad him to share his opinion during council meetings. He appeared to have no stomach for leadership anymore, something that had not endeared him to the men.

Yara watched him now out of the corner of her eye as Tristifer Botley gave his report. Theon’s eyes were trained on the man, and she knew he was taking in every word. He’d not so much as twitched a muscle since Tristifer had delivered the news: Robb Stark was dead. Murdered at his uncle’s wedding, along with his wife and mother. His wolf’s head had been sewn onto his body and paraded around the Twins.

“According to my men,” Tristifer said, unaware of Theon entirely, “King Joffrey named Roose Bolton as the new Warden of the North. Doubtless Lord Bolton be pulling the bannermen back this way.”

“In the case, we’ll be ready for them,” Yara announced, standing to better point at the map spread out on the table. “We still hold Moat Cailin, which will definitely dampen their plans to pull back. If we can—”

“Roose Bolton.” It was barely a murmur, but it cut her off dead.

Hers, and the eyes of every man in the room, swung to Theon. He didn’t seem to notice. He erupted out of his chair, fast enough to send it toppling over with a clatter. He didn’t seem to notice that either.

“Roose Bolton,” he repeated, louder. “Lord of the Dreadfort. What role did he play in this?”

“What role…my lord?” Tristifter asked.

Theon’s eyes shot to him, pinning him. Tristifer actually flinched.

“What role did he play in planning this…Red Wedding?”

“I…I don’t know,” Tristofer said.

“But he allied himself with the Freys and the Lannisters,” Theon went on, “to betray Robb Stark?”

“It…seems so, yes.”

Theon’s eyes went to the map, but he didn’t seem to really be taking it in. A moment of silence where nobody spoke. Yara doubted she could inspire such silence from her own men. Perhaps he had simply caught them all of guard, after months of sitting silently.

Finally, Theon turned his eyes to her. “I’m going to the Dreadfort. Make sure that Roose Bolton is able to get past the Neck so I can meet him there.”

Yara drew in a sharp breath through her nose. That was…unexpected. But perhaps not, knowing Theon’s history of planning things out. “You plan to kill Lord Bolton yourself? Is that it?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“My lord.” Qarl, Yara’s right-hand man, was the first to speak up. “I know you want to make Lord Bolton pay for imprisoning you, but there’s no need to be rash. We can pick them off at the Neck, easily.”

“You don’t need to let the entire army through,” Theon said. “I know Lord Bolton. He’ll smuggle himself through, try to get past our lines with a few of his men. All I ask is that you let him. Let him retreat to the Dreadfort. I’ll be waiting there for him.”

“By yourself?” Tristifer asked.

“I can get him in,” Wex said. Wex, who was quieter than even Theon during meetings, and who hung back in the corner should he be called upon to fetch something. “I did it before, on Princess Yara’s orders. I can do it again.”

Theon was still looking at Yara. “Please,” he murmured, his voice once again low. “Allow me to take Wex to the Dreadfort. If we can kill Lord Bolton, we’ll be able to cut the legs of the Northmen out from under them before they can even regroup.”

At least he was asking her permission. There was more fire in his eyes than she’d seen since he’d been returned to her. She couldn’t very well dampen it now, even though it still sounded like a suicidal plan to her.

“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “You have my permission.”

He gave her a grateful nod, and she returned it.

It was only later, after the men had filed out and it was just the two of them, that she asked him, “Are you certain you want to do this, Theon?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, even though he was noticeably trembling. Granted, it might not actually be fear, but she could see in his face that he did not want to go back to the place where he had been held and tortured in the dark for days before being rescued. “I need to do this, Yara.”

“To avenge yourself?” she asked. “Or to avenge Robb Stark?”

He didn’t answer. Again, he didn’t need to.

And perhaps it was convenient that it was Lord Bolton who had held him prisoner and tortured him, because it made for an easy excuse to give the rest of the Ironborn. If they suspected he was truly going to avenge the death of Robb Stark…

“I value your advice,” Theon said as he made his way around the table towards her. “I do.” He still had a noticeable limp. He likely wouldn’t ever recover, not fully, and it made her even more wary of letting him go on his own. “This is something I need to do, but if you truly advise against it, I’ll listen to you.” His eyes searched hers beseechingly.

Again, she wondered if Wex had returned the right brother to her. He was a changed man, but not all for the worse. He was slowly rebuilding himself into someone new. Who this new man would be…she couldn’t tell, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t at least curious. Although she did not understand the strange hold the Starks still had over him—had _they_ not imprisoned him as well?—she could not deny that news of Robb Stark’s death had spurred him to action more than her months of goading him into even speaking during war council. This was a turning point for him, in more ways than one.

She sighed and leaned heavily against the table. “You have my blessing, brother. There’s no need to ask.” She stared down at the map for a moment, judging the distance from Deepwood Motte to the Dreadfort. Not an easy journey for a man who could barely walk and his squire. “I’ll send Qarl and Tristifer with you,” she said.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she cut off his protest. “It’s my only condition.”

She lifted her eyes and was glad to see him meeting her gaze, unflinching.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright,” she agreed. Then pushed off from the table and bridged the gap between them to pull him into a hug.

He seemed surprise, though he didn’t jump or jerk, and hugged her back after a brief moment. “Thank you, Yara,” was all he said. No empty promises that he would return.

“May the Drowned God favor you,” she said into his ear. “You show those bastards.” She hoped she would see him again. She very much wanted to get to know this new Theon, see what he would make of himself. “Show them that what is dead may never die.”


	9. Sheltered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunflower suggested: 
> 
> _Perhaps one where a servant at the Dreadfort takes pity on Theon after a particularly rough day and takes care of him a little? Specifically a male, since this trope is almost usually exclusively females._
> 
> This is probably the darkest of the lightfics, as there is suggested and referenced ongoing abuse, although nothing of that nature is depicted. Ramsay makes a brief appearance, even though he's not tagged here (let me know if I should tag him). There's also some vague references to animal abuse.
> 
> As a final note, I was halfway through this fic before I realized I don't know anything about horses, to say nothing of Medieval horsery, so apologies in advance.

Col had been working the Dreadfort stables since he was a boy, and he’d always thought that anyone who had an affinity for animals wasn’t truly an evil person. At least, until he’d met Ramsay Snow.

It was well known that Ramsay loved his dogs, and although they weren’t really Col’s responsibility—the kennel master took care of them—he did deal with them when Ramsay took them out hunting.

It was also well known what Ramsay _did_ while out hunting. At least among the servants. Col had certainly heard the whispers, had noticed the missing girls. Only the truly attentive wouldn’t.

Ramsay had returned early from his hunting trip today, which was never a good sign—he had likely not gotten a satisfying hunt. There was a marked hostility as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins over to Col. “See that she’s taken _care_ _of_ this time,” he snapped, “or I’ll feed your clumsy hands to my dogs.”

Col didn’t know what he was talking about. He always took care of Ramsay’s horse. Of all the horses in his care. Horses weren’t like people. They took a lot of work, true, but they were easy to please. As long as you were gentle and didn’t spook them, they trusted you. They didn’t judge you. Didn’t care if you slept in a straw bed, or a bed made out of literal straw.

He took the reins from Ramsay’s hands. “Don’t worry, m’lord, I’ll see to it personally.”

Ramsay snorted dismissively and turned to his hunting hounds, who had come pouring into the courtyard and were bounding around. The biggest one—Red Jeyne, Col knew all their names—jumped up on Ramsay, trailing mud all over his doublet. In an instant, Ramsay’s entire demeanor changed. His face softened. He bent over and rubbed the dog’s ears, and petted the others that came up to get some attention from their master.

Col watched it all, wondering how such a man could do even half of what he was rumored to do. And Col knew they were no rumors at all.

“Come,” Ramsay said to the girls as he stood, still smiling, “let’s get you to the kennels. I know you’re all eager for fresh meat.” He made a token gesture of wiping the mud from himself, then turned his head, almost absentmindedly, and hollered over his shoulder, “Reek!” When there was no answer, he frowned, “Reek! Where are you? Dawdling?”

Again, no answer, and Ramsay’s face once again changed.

“I saw him come in, m’lord,” the kennel master said as he started leashing the girls. “He’s around here somewhere.”

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed on the man, then swept over the courtyard before finally landing on Col, as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Have you seen my pet?”

Col shook his head.

“Well, if you do see him, send him to the kennels, would you? And tell him I’m displeased by his disobedience.”

“Yes…m’lord,” Col agreed, wringing the reins in his hands.

Col knew the rumors about Ramsay were no rumors because he’d seen Reek for himself. Everyone at the Dreadfort had.

With a determined gait, he began leading Ramsay’s horse back into the stables. He couldn’t get distracted thinking about what girl would inevitably turn up missing in the next few days, nor did he want to be. He wanted to focus on his work. On the beast that depended on him to clean and feed her.

He tied her to a hitch and let her drink from the trough while he unsaddled her. He would clean the tack later—and be thorough about it—but first he wanted to brush the horse down. He set the saddle and bridle aside and went to gather his brushes, which he kept in an old bucket in one of the empty stalls.

When he rounded the post, however, he found that the stall wasn’t empty at all, but rather that he had an unexpected guest. It was the missing Reek, curled up with his knees against his chin and tucked into the very far corner. Haunted eyes peered out from between shaggy bangs as Col stood there, surprised and unsure how to act.

“R...Ramsay is looking for you,” he said at last. “I mean, _Lord_ Ramsay is looking for you.”

“I know,” Reek murmured. “He’s…upset with me.”

Col had seen that look before in the eyes of beasts whose masters mistreated them. Starved and beat them. It was different from an animal who’d been backed into a corner. A cornered animal would lash out, claw, hiss, bite, kick. But an animal that had been beaten down didn’t fight back, just sat there waiting for its next beating.

“I’ve been bad,” Reek said, turning his frightened, haunted eyes away. “Bad Reek. Rhymes with weak, sneak, meek…”

“Hey, shhh.” Col held out his hand, the way he would to a spooked horse. “Shhh, it’s alright.”

Reek shook his head. “Freak, eke, shriek…”

“Shhh,” Col said again, and Reek’s muttering fell away. Instead he buried his face in his knees, and he looked so miserable in that instant that Col couldn’t tell him to get out. Instead he crept closer, keeping his voice low. “It’s alright. You can stay here as long as you need to.”

Reek’s shoulders began to shake, and Col realized he was crying.

“Hey, hey.” Col moved in closer and put his hand on Reek’s shoulder. He was filthy, of course, but Col spent a good portion of his days handling literal horse shit and it didn’t bother him overly much. He was more concerned with the way Reek flinched, as if he’d expected Col to strike him. “Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t tell Lord Ramsay you’re here.”

Reek sniffled and looked up. “He’ll be angry if he finds out.”

He would. Definitely. So Col changed the subject.

“Are you cold?” With his hand on his shoulder, he could feel Reek’s entire body shivering. “Here, let me get you a blanket.” He hurried to fetch one of the horse blankets. It was ratty and moth-eaten, but it was better than nothing. Better than the threadbare, mud-soaked clothes Reek was wearing now, at any rate.

When he returned, he found Reek lying on the floor, curled up even more.

“Are you alright?”

“Weak, meek, shriek…”

Col draped the old blanket over Reek’s frame. Reek grabbed hold of it and pulled it tightly around himself, like a flimsy armor. Shivers continued to wrack his body, so Col sat down next to him and ran his hand along the other man’s shoulder, trying to rub some warmth into it. Sitting in silence like that, Reek’s trembling subsided, slowly. So slowly.

“I need to tend to Lord Ramsay’s horse,” Col said. “You can stay here if you want.”

Reek nodded and pulled the blanket over his head.

Col had to make himself work steadily as he finished tending Ramsay’s horse, brushing her down, cleaning out her hooves. The tack could wait, but the horse depended on him. She needed him. Only when she was thoroughly cleaned and locked in her stall with fresh feed did he return to check on Reek. He half-expected the man to have left, but he was still there, still curled up under the blanket. At first he thought he might have fallen asleep, but the man bolted upright as soon as Col’s boots crunched on the sand.

“It’s just me.”

Reek hugged the blanket to his chest and turned his gaze to the straw-covered floor. “I-I’m sorry. You said I could stay and…” He trailed off.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Col said. “I’m glad you did. I brought you something.”

Reek looked up as Col pulled the bread from his pocket. “Sorry, it’s a bit stale,” he said, holding it out. “I can get you some water to dip it in, but I’ll have to get it from the well. Unless you want to use the water the horses use.”

He smiled to show he was joking, but Reek didn’t smile back. Neither did he reach out to take the bread.

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered.

“Shouldn’t?”

“Steal food for me.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Col said, realizing Reek though he’d stolen it from the kitchens. “I’ve been keeping it for a while. That’s why it’s so stale.”

“If it’s yours, then I can’t take it.”

“I’m offering it.”

Reek hesitated, and Col could see the hunger in his eyes. He was trying to talk himself out of it, but in the end, he reached out a shaking hand and took the bread. Without waiting for water, he bit into it, tearing off a chunk and hardly chewing on it before swallowing it.

Col sat down across from him, folding his legs under himself. “Sorry, that’s all I have.”

“You shouldn’t be kind to me.” Reek took another large bite.

“Why not?”

“You’ll get in trouble.” He looked at the floor as he took his next bite. “I’m not worth it.”

“You’re a person, aren’t you?”

“I’m…not sure.” There was real struggle in his eyes. “Certainly not a man.”

“ _Animals_ don’t deserve to be treated the way you are,” Col said.

“I deserve it.” His voice was very small. “I deserve to be Reek.”

Col didn’t know what to say to that, not right away, so he sat quietly while Reek finished the last of the bread.

At last Col said, “You weren’t always Reek, were you?”

Reek’s eyes flicked up to him, warily.

“You had a name once. A real name.”

Reek shook his head. “My name is Reek. Rhymes with seek, squeak, leak…”

Col sighed. He was only upsetting him. Animals shouldn’t be dragged out of their hiding places, and he was inclined to believe this man shouldn’t be either. Not if “Reek” was his hiding place, the place he retreated into to protect himself. As best he was able, at any rate.

Reek finished chasing the crumbs that had fallen onto the blanket, and then sat back on his heels, staring contemplatively at nothing. “I need to go back to Master,” he stated. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”

Col nodded. He wished there was more he could do, but what was there, truly? He watched with his own sense of dread as Reek stood, and the stiff blanket fell away from him. He looked like a man headed to the gallows. Watched him put one foot in front of the other as he began to limp out of the stall.

“Wait!” he called, jumping to his feet.

Reek looked back, startled.

“If you ever need a place to hide again…it’s usually just me and Angus tending the horses.”

Reek stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Col shrugged. “Nobody would be likely to notice you, is all I’m saying. Wouldn’t be any bother to me. And I know the horses wouldn’t mind either. They don’t judge people like that.”

Reek just stood there for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out Col’s motives. His eyes were very much like an animal’s eyes, but there was still a man’s discerning to them, a cleverness that came from self-preservation. He didn’t say anything, but after a long, long pause of just…watching Col, Reek gave a single, curt nod. Someone who spent less time around animals might have missed the shift from wariness to gratitude, but not Col. He didn’t miss it at all.

As Reek continued out of the stables, Col cupped his hands and called after him, “I’ll try to have more bread next time.”


	10. Re-Moved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lorey said: 
> 
> _I feel like[[Moved]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/56977018) deserves a sequel, showing Theon's moment of ultimate triumph over Ramsay!_
> 
> Not sure if this one can technically be called a lightfic, but it is cathartic. So, warnings for blood and gore (nothing over the top, by GOT standards anyway) and mentions of past torture.
> 
> (Now featuring Tristifer's name spelled correctly.)

“They tell me you lost the Greyjoy boy.”

Theon’s ears perked up at the sound of his name. Though perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Nominally he was here to avenge the torture he’d endured on the orders of this man, Roose Bolton, after all.

“Tywin Lannister has given me the North, but he won’t lift a finger to help me take it,” Roose said now, in that calm, matter-of-fact way he had. Theon watched him steeple his fingers as he addressed the two other men—faces he did not know. Not a one of them was aware of the Ironborn listening in on their conversation. “Theon was a valuable hostage. I wanted to trade him for Moat Cailin. But because of your incompetence, that’s no longer an option.”

Through the crack in the false wall, Theon watched the younger man look away, anger and shame contorting his face. Theon gathered this was the man Roose had left in charge of the Dreadfort, in which case perhaps it was more appropriate to say _he’d_ been the one giving orders to torture Theon. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one Theon had come here to kill.

If Theon were being honest, Roose Bolton had always made him uneasy. Even in the early days of Robb’s campaign, there had always been something…off about the man. Quiet. Calculating. Theon have often laughed at him—made jokes about his quiet voice and his penchant for leeching—even though Robb disapproved. Robb wouldn’t hear a bad word about any of his bannermen. He never saw the bad until it was too late.

Not that Theon was very different in that regard, when the dust had settled.

As much as he’d disliked Roose, he never would have thought him capable of cold-blooded regicide. As he’d traveled with Wex, Tristifer, and Qarl to the Dreadfort, he’d heard more and more news trickling out of the Twins. Not only had Roose plotted with the Freys and Lannisters to murder Robb, he’d been the one to do the deed himself. Plunged his dagger right into Robb’s heart.

Rage filled Theon again now, thinking about how unaware Robb must have been caught. Probably not even fully aware of what was happening, even as Roose’s blade had stabbed into him. He trusted too easily. Never saw the bad until it was too late.

Just like when he’d trusted Theon.

“I had the men responsible punished,” the young man said, snapping Theon’s attention back to the moment. The meeting between Lord Bolton and his two advisors—the younger one receiving the dressing-down and the older one watching with amused disinterest from the corner.

Wex had gotten them into the Dreadfort fairly easily. Theon didn’t ask how he knew about the secret entrances, the tunnels. Wex was a strange man, just a boy, really. He was cleverer than he looked. He’d said he could get them in, and he had, smuggled them in right in under the Boltons’ noses.

They’d gone in through the dungeons, and Theon had had to suppress a shudder as they’d passed by the wooden saltire he’d spent several days strapped to, before Wex had rescued him. He intimately remembered the sharp bite of the wood against his bare skin, the unbearable ache in his limbs from being unable to move. His foot and hands throbbed at the memory of knives and screws and presses… He’d not even known at the time that it had been on Lord Bolton’s orders. Or rather, this nameless young man’s orders.

God, he must be mad to come back here, willingly.

Looking at the young man now, Theon couldn’t muster even a fraction of the hatred he felt towards Roose Bolton. There was only icy discomfort in his stomach, and ants under his skin.

“You’ve disappointed me, Ramsay,” Roose said, and Theon finally got his name for the younger man. Ramsay. It sounded vaguely familiar. Had he heard Roose’s son’s name was Ramsay? He couldn’t remember. “I had to smuggle myself into my own lands thanks to the Greyjoys.”

“I can help you retake Moat Cailin,” Ramsay said, and Theon winced at the high-pitched eagerness in his voice. Because it reminded him too much of himself, seeking his own father’s approval. _You’ll never win it_ , Theon wanted to say—well, as much as he wanted to say anything to this man. And he thought again of that moment when he’d burned his letter to Robb, the very moment he’d decided the chance to win his father’s approval outweighed any oath he had sworn to the man who had named him brother.

In response to Ramsay’s eagerness now, Roose merely looked on with disapproval. “I put far too much faith in you.”

Theon felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced over to see Qarl, ax in hand. “Now, my lord?”

Theon agreed. They’d waited long enough. He gave a nod, and in an instant, the Ironborn were slipping out of the false wall, unsheathing their weapons. Roose’s man—the one who hadn’t spoken and whose name Theon didn’t know—was the first to see them, but when he rose out of his seat, a cry on his lips, Tristifer surged forward and slit his throat. The man collapsed to the ground, gurgling. Qarl rushed Ramsay, pinning him violently against the wall before he could make a noise. Before Roose could even turn his head, Theon was behind him, holding his dagger to the man’s throat.

“I want to hear it from your lips,” he hissed into the Leech Lord’s ear. “Did you kill Robb Stark?”

“Who are you?” Roose’s voice was nowhere near as concerned as it should be.

Theon dug his dagger in deeper. “Answer my question. Did you kill Robb Stark? With your own hands?”

“Father,” Ramsay began to speak, but Qarl punched him in the throat to silence him.

There was no reaction from Roose, either to the dagger against his throat or his son gasping as he slumped to the floor. “Yes, I killed Robb Stark. Why? Are you here to avenge him?”

“He trusted you.” Theon gritted his teeth. “He trusted you and you betrayed him.”

“It needed to be done. The fool boy was leading us to disaster.”

“You swore an oath!”

Tristifer put a finger to his mouth, indicating Theon should keep his voice down.

“Don’t give me your excuses,” Theon continued, quieter. “You didn’t betray Robb for anyone’s good but your own. To feed your own ambition. That’s why you did it, isn’t it?”

Roose was very still. And infuriatingly calm when he spoke. “I suppose your reasons for betraying your king are much nobler, Theon Greyjoy.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Theon snarled.

Roose cocked his head. “Well?”

So Theon did. He gave the dagger a savage pull, putting all of his anger and frustration into it. Blood splashed across his hand, and Roose dropped to the ground without even a sound. It was Theon who was left breathless, trying to pull air into his lungs that wouldn’t come. For a second, he saw himself as the body splayed lifelessly across the stones. Murderer. Traitor. Turncloak.

“What should we do with him, my lord?”

He blinked. His vision cleared. It was just Roose Bolton on the floor.

Slowly, his breath returned and he glanced up to see Qarl, boot planted on Ramsay’s back, pinning him to the floor. Ramsay glowered up at them with malice-filled eyes. Eyes that, now that Theon looked closer, very much resembled Roose’s.

“Shall I kill him?” Qarl asked, hefting his ax.

Ramsay grinned, a hateful grin that sent shivers down Theon’s arms. “You did me a favor, Greyjoy.” His voice was still raspy from being punched in the throat. “Now I don’t have to lie about our enemies murdering my father.”

Theon wiped his brow and realized his hand was covered in blood. “You’re Roose’s son?”

“You’re going to pretend like you don’t know me?” Ramsay scoffed. “You were my bitch. You were screaming to me for mercy, not that long ago. Willing to give me anything to let you down off that cross. I saw what you are. What you _really_ are.”

Theon looked at him dispassionately. “Kill him.”

Ramsay opened his mouth to say something else, but Qarl brought his ax down and split his skull open.

Theon winced and looked away.

So, this was the man who’d strapped him to that cross, whose faceless image still had him waking up in cold sweats some nights. He should feel some vindication. His tormenter was dead. Robb’s murderer was dead. And yet he felt…not much of anything, really. Emptiness. Hollowness.

_It’s done, Robb._

“Are you alright?” Tristifer asked.

Theon looked down at his dagger, still coated with Roose’s blood. He’d have to clean it before he put it away, and suddenly the task was so daunting that he simply let it fall to the ground. Let it stay here.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head back to the tunnel behind the hidden wall. Wex would be waiting to lead them out of the castle, and Theon was suddenly eager to leave this place behind. The faster, the better. “Let’s return to my sister.”


	11. Deserved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> _can i possibly request a lightfic where theon has been saved from ramsay’s sexual slavery (can be au or not) by robb and he’s helping him heal and learn how to consent for himself and starting to wear clothes for the first time again in YEARS and it’s really soft bc i couldnt get enough of a stark and endless waste?_
> 
> I meant to have this up yesterday, but it just kept growing and growing and I still felt like I was rushing through it at lightning speed. This deserves at least a 10,000-word fill, but I hope this is a good enough start.
> 
> I should add that there's nothing explicit about the past abuse, but it is pretty unambiguous, so just something to keep in mind.

Robb stood poised at the threshold, one hand holding the tray, the other raised to knock on the door. But he couldn’t seem to.

Just one knock. That’s probably all it would take.

But his fist just didn’t want to touch the wood.

It wasn’t that this sort of thing was beneath him. In fact, it felt right that the future Lord of Winterfell would be taking on responsibilities like this. He’d felt a swell of pride when his father had asked him to do it. “He’s been turning away everyone else,” Ned had told him, hand clamped on his shoulder. “Perhaps someone of his own standing and closer to his age will make him more agreeable. I will warn you, though. Our guest is in a bad way.”

Robb wasn’t certain what that meant: _in a bad way_. He’d only heard snippets. The adults who’d been there, who’d returned from the Dreadfort, spoke vaguely of it. They were more concerned with the political fallout, should the Iron Islands find out what had happened to Balon Greyjoy’s heir while in their care. Robb had caught a glimpse of the boy, when they’d first ridden into the courtyard. It was hard to believe they were the same age; he seemed younger _and_ older at the same time, small and hunched over, a face lined with age beyond his time.

Robb hadn’t seen him since. Hadn’t so much as spoken with him. And yet here he was, standing at his door, tray in hand, hand poised to knock. And he couldn’t make himself.

_Father should not have trusted me with this._

_Enough of this, Robb Stark,_ he told himself, straightening his shoulders to bolster his confidence. _You are going to be the Lord of Winterfell one day. The least you can do now is see to the comfort of your guest._

The knocking of his knuckles against wood was deafening to his ears. He dropped his arm and waited.

And waited.

Just when he thought he was going to have to knock again, there was a slight shuffling sound on the other side of the door. With a creak, it cracked open, and one blue-green eye peered out. “Who…are you?”

“Oh.” Robb cleared his throat awkwardly. He should have prepared something to say. Gods knew he’d had enough time. “I’m Robb Stark.”

“Robb Stark,” the boy repeated. His bony hands wrapped around the edge of the door. Robb noticed he was missing more than one finger. “Stark. Stark.”

“That’s right. Eddard Stark is my father.” Robb held out the tray in front of him. “I…I brought you supper.”

The blue-green eye examined it. “I’m not hungry…m’lord.”

The boy had been very thin when Robb had seen him, draped in clothes that were too big for him. Surely he must be hungry. “Not even a little bit?”

There was a distinct pause. “No.”

“Oh.” Robb shuffled from one foot to the other. “I can still leave it. For if you’re hungry later.”

“Would it make you happy…if I ate?”

“Er…” Robb looked at the tray in his hands. “I suppose.”

The door opened wider, and the boy stepped back, a clear invitation to come in. Robb allowed himself a moment of pride. He’d delivered on his father’s trust in him. Tray in hand, he strode in.

The room was simple, unadorned and unfussy. The bed was unmade. The boy’s hair was rumpled and uncombed. Ned had said he hadn’t been out of his room since they’d brought him here.

This was Robb’s first time seeing him up close. He supposed they were of an age, though the Greyjoy boy was shorter than him. He was dressed in a simple nightshirt that fell to his knees. His feet were bare, and Robb couldn’t help but notice that he was also missing more than one toe. He quickly averted his eyes to the boy’s face. Despite the fact that he seemed to be doing nothing but sleeping all day, he still had dark circles under his eyes.

“May I…?” The boy scratched at one of his stick-thin arms and would not meet Robb’s gaze. “May I eat first?”

“Of course,” Robb said, not entirely sure what he meant.

He set the tray on the side table near the bed. The boy eyed him cagily. “I can have…all of it?”

“All of it,” Robb agreed. “The more you eat, the less I have to carry back to the kitchens.” He smiled, but the boy did not smile back.

Instead, he crawled onto the bed and scooted over to the food. He’d been lying when he’d said he wasn’t hungry. He ate ravenously. The bread, the chicken, the carrots. Everything Robb had brought him. All of it went into his mouth, barely chewed before he was onto the next bite.

“What is your name?” Robb asked, just so the boy would pause to take a breath.

“Reek, m’lord,” he mumbled in reply.

“Reek?”

“Yes, m’lord.” He was shoving chicken into his mouth so fast, Robb worried he’d swallow a bone.

“Reek of House Greyjoy?” Robb pressed.

The boy shook his head. “Just Reek, m’lord.”

Robb sat down on the edge of the bed. The boy watched him but didn’t stop his eating. “My father says you’re a Greyjoy, from the Iron Islands.”

“I’m Reek, from the Dreadfort,” he insisted. “I’ve never been to the Iron Islands.”

Robb frowned in confusion. The men talked in hushed whispers about what had happened to the Greyjoy heir at the Dreadfort, at the hands of Lord Bolton’s bastard and his men. It was unthinkable that a highborn lord would be treated in such a way, even as a hostage. But maybe they’d brought the wrong boy back?

Well, Greyjoy or no, the boy had obviously been misused at the Dreadfort. His missing fingers and toes spoke to that, if nothing else.

Reek ate until there were only bits of chicken bone left on the plate, then licked his fingers clean. Then, without missing a beat, he scooted off the bed and came towards Robb at a casual saunter. Robb felt an uneasy pull at his stomach, which jumped up clear into his throat when the boy just as casually sank to his knees and reached for the laces of Robb’s breeches.

Robb jumped back. “What—what are you doing?”

The boy looked up at him, blinking blearily. “Earning my supper, m’lord.” He crawled forward on his knees and tried again.

And again Robb jumped back, until his back hit against the door. Bile rose in the back of his throat. “Don’t—you shouldn’t—”

To his immense relief, Reek sank back on his haunches, though he seemed thoroughly confused. “Sorry, m’lord. I’ve been impertinent. Please forgive me.” He lowered his head, and the knobs of his spine poked out against the thin fabric of his nightshirt. “Please see fit to punish me in any way you want.”

Punish?

“No!” Robb blurted out. He groped behind his back for the door’s handle. “That’s fine. It’s fine. There’s nothing to punish. There’s—” The handle lifted and the door clicked. He hurriedly pulled it open. “No punishment. Just eat. That’s all I…” He was babbling now, and Reek’s face was turning more and more confused, so Robb slipped through the door and slammed it closed behind him.

Only when he was hurrying down the hall at a quick trot to put some distance between them did he remember that he’d forgotten to take the tray with him. For a brief second he thought about turning back and getting it, but decided he couldn’t face Reek again.

***

Of course, just as Robb had vowed to put the boy out of his thoughts, Ned had to catch Robb in the hallway. “How did it go with the Greyjoy boy?” he asked.

“It went…” Robb clenched and unclenched his fists uncomfortably. He still wasn’t sure what that had been, Reek trying to grab at his breeches. He thought he knew, but the idea that Reek had wanted to…had tried to…it sent shudders down his spine. He didn’t want to talk about it with Ned. “It went fine,” he said at last. “Reek ate everything I brought him.”

Ned’s eyebrows pinched together, and Robb knew he’d said something wrong.

“Reek? Is that what he told you to call him?”

Robb nodded.

Ned sighed. A weary sigh.

“Is that not his real name? He said he wasn’t a Greyjoy.”

“Robb…” Ned ran a hand down his face. “This may well affect your wardenship going forward, when you become Lord of Winterfell, so I suppose I must tell you.” He glanced up and down the hall. “Let us speak in private. It is not for careless ears to hear.”

Together, they walked to Ned’s solar in silence, Robb feeling a strange strangling sensation in his throat. Earlier, being given any responsibility had seemed the best thing in the world. And now, he could feel he was being entrusted with another responsibility, an ugly one, and it felt like a weight pressing down on him.

Ned closed and locked the solar door behind him, and then turned to Robb, hands clasped together. “After the Greyjoy Rebellion, King Robert decreed that Balon Greyjoy’s last remaining son and heir—Theon is his true name, by the way—would be taken as a ward on the mainland, to hedge against any further rebellion attempts.”

Robb knew that much, though it had all happened when he was quite young. “Mother didn’t want him here, though. The heir, I mean.”

“I thought another Northern House would be a better fit, and so I asked Lord Bolton if he would agree. He did, and I thought the matter settled. Lord Bolton sent me occasional reports on the boy’s well-being, and I assumed…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I made many mistakes.”

“They weren’t treating him well,” Robb stated, because his father seemed to be having trouble getting it out. “I’ve seen his fingers and toes.”

“More than that.” Ned’s face contorted in discomfort and disgust. “You see, Lord Bolton’s son…his bastard son…it was found that he…he’d been using the boy, Robb.”

It took a few moments for the words and their implication to set in. And then, all Robb could see was Reek, reaching for his laces, saying he was going to “earn” his supper. Was that…? He stared at the floor, forcing the patterns in the wood grain to wash out that image.

He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, strong and comforting. “I worry how the Greyjoys will react should they find out about this. But more than that, I worry about the boy.” There was terrible guilt written all over Ned’s face, and it frightened Robb. It frightened to think his father was capable of making mistakes.

“I want to help him.”

Ned’s face reflected the surprise Robb felt at his own words. He didn’t know where the sentiment had come from, but now that it was out there, he knew it was true.

“I want to help him,” he repeated. “If there’s anything I can do…” I clenched his fist. “It’s a responsibility I want to take on.”

“Are you certain?” Ned’s hand tightened on Robb’s shoulder, as if he had the power to pull him back from taking this particular plunge. “It’s never a parent’s wish…” He paused and reconsidered. “It should never _be_ a parent’s wish to pass their burdens onto their children. It happens regardless, but this is not something you need saddle yourself with if you don’t wish it.”

Robb thought again of Reek—no, Theon. How frightened and confused he’d looked. How, even though he was obviously hungry, he had refused to eat until he’d perceived it as an order. And then he’d… The thought of it all made Robb itch with discomfort. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. Maybe he should leave it up to someone who knew what they were doing.

But as he met his father’s gaze, he realized Ned didn’t know what he was doing either. And that frightened him even more than realizing his father was capable of making mistakes.

“I wish it,” he said, bracing himself. “I wish to help Theon Greyjoy.”

***

Breakfast, the next morning. Robb standing at the door. He wanted to draw this out like he had last night. But he couldn’t. He made himself knock, putting force behind it. The sound was louder than anything he’d ever heard in his life. Except maybe his heartbeat in the silence that followed.

The door creaked open, and one green-blue eye peered out again. “Lord Stark.”

“Robb,” Robb corrected. “Please, call me Robb.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The eye looked away. “Are you still…angry with me?”

Angry? That’s what he thought?

“I’m not angry, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

Robb didn’t realize a single eye could show so much skepticism.

“I brought you breakfast.” Robb held out the tray. “May I come in?”

The door opened.

Robb did hesitate, then, before stepping in. He could just set the tray down and leave. That would be enough, wouldn’t it? Bringing Theon his meals and making sure he ate? It was more than he’d been getting.

No, it wasn’t enough.

Robb took a breath and came in. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Don’t…” Robb gritted his teeth. “I just want to make sure we understand some things.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon agreed hollowly.

“First of all, I don’t want you to—don’t do that thing you did yesterday.”

Theon cocked his head. “What thing?”

“When you tried to…you know.” Robb flapped his hand uselessly in the air. “I don’t want that from you.”

Theon looked down at his hands. Flexed them like they were gloves he’d never worn before. “You don’t want me to…service you?”

“No!” Robb snapped, then forced himself to be calmer. “No. We don’t…do that here. In Winterfell.”

“Don’t do…that?”

“You don’t have to ‘earn’ your food,” Robb explained as he set the tray on the nightstand. “Or anything else. You’re our guest.”

Theon stood very still, eyes swiveling around like they didn’t know where to look. “But you…the men came and took me away from that place. The last time that happened…” He clasped and unclasped his hands, let them drop to his sides again. “The last time they came for me in the night, I…the lord of that castle said I…his son also…”

He was talking about the Greyjoy Rebellion, Robb realized, and how he’d come to be Lord Bolton’s ward. And here he was again, changing hands, like coin to be traded.

“Please, I’m a faster learner now.” Theon clasped his hands again, balled them together. “I know I’m not—I’m not clever—I’m dumb—but I learn better than I did back then. The first time, when… I can please you, m’lord, if you’ll give me a chance.” He tucked his clasped hands up under his chin and began mumbling, “Reek, Reek, rhymes with weak, meek, freak…”

“No, stop, you don’t—” Robb reached out and grabbed his hands and yanked them free. Felt the flinch of Theon’s body and the small cry as he tried to fight. Immediately, he let him go and took a step back. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—I shouldn’t have done that.” He held up his hands.

Theon watched him warily, and Robb felt guilt bubbling up in his gut.

“You’re not a slave anymore,” he said weakly, unsure the boy even understood what he meant. “You’re our guest, and we— _I_ am going to make sure nobody hurts you again. Theon.”

He shook his head furiously. “No, no, you can’t say that name. Not ever. It’s a bad name. It belongs to a bad boy, and I’m not bad. I promise.” He took a trembling step towards Robb, even though he clearly wanted nothing more than to bolt. “I’m good. I can be good. I’m a fast learner. I promise. I promise I can be good.”

“Shhh,” Robb said gently. And just as gently, he reached out his hands, slowly. So slowly, so that Theon could draw back from him, though he didn’t think he would, even he if he wanted to. He gently took hold of Theon’s shoulders, so gently he barely applied any pressure at all. Just enough to guide him to the nightstand, where the platter of food sat waiting. “I’m not mad at you. Nobody is mad at you.”

Theon’s shoulders shook, and dry, hiccupping sobs worked their way up from his chest. “I can be good.” It was barely a whisper.

Robb gently, gently guided him to sit down on the bed and then pulled the tray full of food forward. “Are you hungry?”

Of course he was, but he only gave a timid nod.

“Then eat as much as you want.”

He sniffled and wiped at his face with the back of his hand.

“You deserve better than what you’ve been given.”

Robb knelt down so he wouldn’t tower over the boy. “Theon.”

Theon looked up.

Again Robb felt the weight of the responsibility he’d taken on. How it wasn’t enough to just say he’d do it. He needed to follow through, to prove he was worthy of their trust. His father. Theon. Everyone he would be ruling over when he was Lord of Winterfell.

“I’m going to do my best to be the man you deserve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lightfic requests are still open! Feel free to leave a prompt in the comments or on my tumblr @megaunhappybunny.


	12. Reserved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> attackfish asked: 
> 
> _Since requests are still open, can I request a continuation [of the last fill]?_
> 
> Have another long (for me) fill. This one is a direct continuation of [Deserved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/58597429).
> 
> And psst, Requests are still open...

Theon cocked his head in confusion.

They seemed to have moved past the point where his default reaction was fear, but Robb had a feeling the confusion stage would linger for some time.

“I brought these for you to try on.” Robb gestured to the clothes laid out on the bed. They were some of his own that he’d decided to sacrifice for the occasion. “They might be a little big, but we can have them altered.”

“Oh, but…” Theon inched closer to the clothes, reached out and felt the fabric between his fingers. “These are a lord’s clothes. I couldn’t…”

“Nonsense,” Robb said. “If I say it’s alright, it’s alright.” He’d learned that attempting to get Theon to accept his mantle as Lord of the Iron Islands was a great way to bring back the fear they’d worked so hard to overcome this past week. Even now, he suspected Theon only accepted his birth name because Robb insisted on it. No matter how many times he’d tried to explain that he was not Theon’s new master, the boy remained unconvinced. But at least he no longer broke out in tears or threw himself to the floor whenever Robb came to check on him.

Theon hesitantly lifted the doublet Robb had brought. Truly it was nothing fancy. “It’s too fine for the likes of me, m’lord.” He held it up to himself. “I’m afraid I would not even know how to put it on.”

“What? Really?”

Theon hurriedly put the doublet back on the bed and stared at the ground. “Forgive me, m’lord. Ree—Theon is a dim creature.”

“No, no,” Robb rushed to assure him. “It’s just…” Obliviously his “master” had not let him wear more than rags, but did he not remember wearing clothes when he was younger? Robb pondered it for a second. Given that he swore he didn’t even remember being Theon Greyjoy, it was possible. “Here, I can show you.”

“You…can?”

“I would be happy to.”

And for the first time, Theon cracked a bit of a smile. It was tiny, uncertain, but undeniable. Robb felt a flush through his entire body.

After making sure that Theon at least knew how to put on smallclothes, Robb turned his back to give his charge some privacy while he put on his braies and undershirt. He informed Theon to only give him the go-ahead to turn back when he was fully covered.

Normally, Robb wouldn’t pay too much mind to seeing a boy his own age in any state of undress. But knowing the way the Bastard of Bolton had “used” him, and seeing how Theon considered Robb his new master, Robb didn’t want any misperceptions between them. He would treat Theon as he would a maiden and avert his eyes.

There was some rustling of fabric, and after a little time, Theon called, “I am covered, m’lord.”

Robb turned and couldn’t keep himself from eying the boy up and down. The nightshirt had covered the true thinness of his arms and legs, which were pale and sticklike in his undergarments. A week of regular meals hadn’t done much to fill out his frame. Not yet, at least. That would take time, and Robb had vowed to be patient.

“Alright,” he said.

He showed Theon through pantomime how to put on his breeches, and Theon took to that quickly. He slid them on over his thin legs easily, though he had some trouble cinching them. His hands were clumsy as they worked the laces. Robb could hardly blame him, what with his missing fingers.

After a few moments of trying and failing, Theon murmured, “Forgive me, m’lord. It’s…more difficult to tie than to untie.”

“It’s alright,” Robb said, before the implication of Theon’s words really set in. Then he felt himself blanche. Remembering the way Theon had tried to undo the lacing of his own breeches the first time he’d brought him dinner. “Just…try to tie the knot at the top for now.”

Theon did, which would keep the breeches from slipping down his legs. They could work on properly lacing them later. Robb was ready to move onto the doublet, if for no other reason than to give him something else to think about.

The boy’s arms were clumsy with that as well, and Robb finally relented. “I’ll help you,” he said, because even if Theon could manage to get his arms through the sleeves, he’d have a hell of a time with the lacing on the front; it was much more complicated than the breeches. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

Theon stared at him. “You don’t need to ask, m’lord.”

“I do,” Robb insisted. “Are you alright with me touching you? Answer truthfully. If you’re not, I swear not to.”

Theon blinked and turned his head away, as if to shield his thoughts from Robb. “I don’t mind it, m’lord,” he answered. “If…if you will be gentle.”

“Of course.”

Robb helped Theon maneuver his arms into the sleeves and draw the doublet over his back. Like the breeches, it was too large on him, but not overly so. He would fill out with more regular feeding, and they could have the clothes tailored in any case. Robb could live without this particular outfit; Theon needed it more.

He pulled the front ends together and began lacing them, feeding the thread through the eyelets in the fabric. Always, he tried to remain gentle, tried not to pull too tight, aware of every time his hands brushed against Theon’s body. He _looked_ so insubstantial that it was almost a shock to feel his solidness. Throughout, Theon was so quiet that Robb worried he was keeping his discomfort in, but when he finished the last tie and stepped back, there was another smile on Theon’s face.

“I feel so…fancy,” he said, brushing his hands over the leather. “These are the finest clothes R—Theon has ever worn. Thank you, m’lord.”

Robb’s face felt hot. “Well, I wanted you to have some proper clothes. I thought we might go outside today.”

The smile fell off of Theon’s face. “Outside?”

“Just…out in the halls. Maybe the courtyard. You’ve been shut up in this room all week. I thought you might like to get out and stretch your legs.”

Theon’s hands fell to his side. “If…if you wish it, m’lord.”

“No, I meant—if _you_ wish it,” Robb said. “And _only if_ you wish it. If you’d rather stay in…” He hoped Theon wouldn’t. The boy was so pale. He needed some light on his skin, something besides the dank mustiness and stone walls of the castle.

Theon stood fiddling with his hands.

“You don’t have to meet with anyone else,” Robb went on. “It will be just the two of us. And if we do happen to see someone else, I’ll be there with you. I’ll protect you.”

“You’ll…protect me?”

“Of course.” Robb wanted so much to touch him—to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, the way Ned would do to him—but he forced himself not to. “No one will try to hurt you. But if they do, I’ll stop them. I’m the son of Eddard Stark, and no one would dare lay a hand on my guest.”

Theon looked up at him with those big, soulful eyes. “You promise?”

“I do promise. I will do everything in my power to make sure that no harm comes to you.”

***

Luckily, he didn’t need to protect Theon from anyone. They made their way all the way out to the inner courtyard without meeting anyone. Robb had deliberately chosen a less travelled area, away from the noise and bustle of the castle.

It was a warm summer day, and the sun hung round and bright in the sky. Perhaps a little too bright. As they stepped outside, Theon threw up a hand to cover his eyes. “Sorry, m’lord, I haven’t…I’m still not quite used to it.”

“It’s alright, Theon,” Robb said, and he steered other boy into the shade of a tree. Watched those blue-green eyes blink as they adjusted. “You don’t need to apologize so much, you know. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Theon fiddled with his hands again. “I’m always doing something wrong. I can’t help it. I am…a dull creature. Master said it often.”

His “master.” The Bastard of Bolton. Ramsay Snow.

Robb wondered what had become of him. Surely he couldn’t get away with treating a hostage this way, one who had officially when their ward. Lord Bolton had much to answer for.

“You’re not dull,” Robb said. “You’re not dim. You’re confused, but you’re entitled to be confused. After all that’s happened to you. I’d be confused too.”

Theon looked down, but not before Robb noticed the patch of pink blossoming on his face. “You are too kind, m’lord.” He picked at his nails. “Lord Bolton had a trueborn son as well. You remind me a bit of him.”

“I do?” Robb grimaced. He didn’t want to remind anyone of anyone from House Bolton.

Theon shrugged. “Perhaps I don’t remember him well. He died, you see, and then I was passed onto to Master Ramsay…and I don’t remember much before that time. But I do remember that he was kind, the trueborn son. I remember that he gave me candies…sometimes.”

And that was the most kindness he remembered?

“You like candies?” Robb asked, and immediately felt stupid. “We have them at Winterfell. I could bring you some.”

Theon’s eyes went wide, and the corners of his mouth stretched into the biggest grin yet. It was the first truly unguarded moment Robb had seen from him, and he felt his heart melt. “That would be—”

“Robb!”

In a flash, the guardedness was back, and Theon was jumping behind Robb for protection as Jon came running up to them. _Perfect timing, Jon_ , Robb thought unkindly, though perhaps _he_ should have been the one paying more attention.

“Robb,” Jon called again as he drew near, boots crunching on the courtyard gravel. “So, this is where you’ve been. Did you hear me calling earlier?”

Robb forced an easy smile. He couldn’t really blame Jon for ruining the moment. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

“Father sent me to find you. He wanted to speak—oh…” Jon finally seemed to have noticed Theon, cowering behind Robb. Robb was intimately aware of the way the other boy clung to his arm. And also the wariness in Jon’s stance. Unsure if it was appropriate to be seen by this particular guest—if his status as a bastard would be an affront to their highborn guest.

“Jon, this is Theon,” Robb said. “Theon, this is my brother, Jon Snow.”

“Snow,” Theon murmured, and his fingers dug deeper into Robb’s arm.

Jon misread the fear in Theon’s voice, though Robb couldn’t really fault him; he was used to derision, so that’s probably what he’d hear. “Well…it’s a pleasure to have you are Winterfell, my lord.” Jon’s smile was forced and thin. He quickly turned back to Robb. “Father wants to speak with you. He says it’s important but not urgent.”

“Thank you,” Robb said with a nod of his head. “I’ll see you tonight at supper.”

Jon nodded back, then turned and headed off at an overly brisk pace.

Robb winced. Theon’s grip on his arm had become painful. “Theon, my arm—would you…?”

Theon didn’t loosen his grip. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Robb blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I won’t let him. He won’t hurt you. I’ll protect you.” He finally looked up, and there was a ferocity on his face that was startling. Especially after the meekness he’d shown all week. “I promise it, m’lord. I won’t let that man hurt you.”

“What? You mean Jon?” Robb chuckled, but it did little to ease the tension. “Jon’s my brother. He would never hurt me.”

“Lord Bolton had two sons too. His trueborn heir was kind—like you. But I didn’t belong to him for very long.”

Robb furrowed his brow. Theon was implying something, but he couldn’t quite parse it.

“My new master was a Snow too.” Theon clung harder to Robb. “I mustn’t call him that. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it when you—nobody believes me, but I know what I saw, m’lord. I know it was Master who…”

A chill ran up Robb’s spine. “Who…did what?”

Theon lowered his head and wouldn’t answer, just clung to Robb. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Hey, hey.” Robb gingerly pried Theon’s fingers off his arm and turned so they were face to face, though Theon wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know what the situation was at the Dreadfort, but Jon is my _brother_. He is kind and honorable, and when I am Lord of Winterfell, I intend to petition the King to legitimize him.”

Theon shook his head.

“Jon won’t hurt you.” Robb placed his hands on Theon’s shoulders before he could think better of it. Theon flinched at the touch and Robb pulled away.

“No, please…” Theon reached for his hands. “I don’t mind you touching me, m’lord.”

What else could he do? Robb put his hands back. “Jon won’t hurt you,” he repeated. “And he would never hurt me. Whatever that other Snow did to you…he’s not Jon. And I’m not Domeric Bolton. I’m not going anywhere.”

He gave Theon’s shoulders a squeeze, and Theon slowly lifted his head again. He was frightened. Uncertain and frightened. Robb wanted to chase every one of his fears and doubts away.

“I’m staying right here. I promise.”


	13. Preserved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretzels asked: 
> 
> _Can I request a continuation of[[Reserved]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/58720654#workskin) where it turns to love between them and Robb helps Theon to find that sex can be pleasurable and not something he *has* to give and not something that is done unto you and is an act of revulsion/hate? Going full self-indulgent._
> 
> So, this is our third installment in this saga.
> 
> I'm sorry this is late! I made the (probably unwise) decision to start folding canon into this series and then I didn't know how far I should go and which moments I should include and...excuses, excuses. TT_TT Also, Robb is such an awkward virgin in this one that it unintentionally kinda became the inverse of the prompt, so I'm sorry about that too.
> 
> Mind the "dubcon" tag. It's really just Theon making an advance without asking, and Robb corrects him pretty quickly.

Robb felt a familiar weight on the bed. He shifted and a voice whispered, “Sorry to wake you, my lord.”

Despite everything, Robb smiled. _My lord_. He would prefer Theon _didn’t_ call him that, but it was nice to hear him enunciate. It meant he was slowly divesting himself of Ramsay Snow’s training.

“You didn’t wake me,” he said, turning. He could just make out Theon’s face in the dark, lying next to him. “I wasn’t asleep.”

“Good.”

He felt Theon sidle closer. This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled into Robb’s bed like this. These visits had started sometime during his first month at Winterfell, when nightmares and the fear of unfamiliar surroundings had often brought him seeking the comfort of Robb’s presence. Robb didn’t have the heart to turn him away. Not that first night, and not during any night after.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Theon said, “thinking of how upset you were at dinner.”

Robb sighed. “You don’t need to worry about me, Theon.” Worrying was Robb’s responsibility. All the things he had to worry about, now that Ned had gone to King’s Landing and Robb was now acting Lord of Winterfell.

“I’m sure Lord Bran will be alright.”

Robb sighed. “I hope so.” Catelyn had no left Bran’s side since his fall from the tower. And though Robb did not begrudge her one bit, it did mean he was seeing to more of the daily running of Winterfell in her absence. And now Jon was not even here to help him, having left for the Wall.

“You’ll be a fine Lord of Winterfell, my lord,” Theon whispered.

Robb jumped when he felt a hand brush against his thigh. Maybe it was just an absentminded gesture. He told himself that until he felt that hand slide in closer…close to… _there_.

He bolted upright. “What are you doing?”

He heard more than saw Theon wrestling with the sheets as he tried to sit up as well. “I…I’m sorry, my lord. I thought I would…make you feel better.”

Robb’s heart was beating up between his ears. He clutched to the headboard, but Theon made no further move to touch him. “Theon, that’s—I told you, we don’t do that here in Winterfell.”

“I know,” Theon agreed. “You told me I don’t need to pleasure you to earn my food or clothes.”

“Or anything,” Robb added.

“You said…you said it should be something I want.”

“It should.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“I want it.”

“What?” Robb asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.

“I want to pleasure you.”

Robb took in a sharp inhale of breath. He had heard correctly, unfortunately.

“Theon, no,” he said gently. “That’s not how this… First off, don’t _I_ get a say what I want?”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Robb could actually hear him nodding in that enthusiastic way he had when he was being _too_ agreeable. “Whatever you want, my lord. I want you to use my body.”

“But _I_ don’t.”

There was silence, and Robb winced at how harsh that had sounded, even to his own ears.

“You don’t…want me?” Theon’s voice was thin and quiet.

Robb calmed his breathing, felt his heart slow as Theon sank back into the sheets. “Theon…may I touch you?”

“O-of course, my lord.”

In the dark, Robb groped around until his hands found Theon’s shoulders. His skin hot beneath the fabric of his nightshirt. And he was trembling, slightly.

“I care about you, Theon.”

“I care about you too, my lord.”

“But this isn’t how I want it to be between us.”

Theon was quiet for a moment. “I understand.”

Robb wasn’t sure he did.

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“No, it’s—it’s alright.” He rubbed Theon’s shoulders through the fabric of his nightshirt, felt Theon lean into him. He was not as stick-thin as he’d been when he’d first come to them. “Do you…do you still want to stay the night with me?”

“Yes, please, my lord.” Theon gripped gently at the sleeve of Robb’s nightshirt. “I am sorry. I just wanted to make you feel good, to take your mind off of everything that’s been troubling you.”

“Shhh,” Robb said, because that’s who he was now. He was the Lord of Winterfell, and it was his job to take care of those in his charge. “I don’t want you to worry about it.” He scuttled back under the sheets and Theon joined him.

Theon curled up next to him, a respectable distance so that their bodies were not touching, but close enough that Robb could feel the other boy’s breath on his skin. Robb reached out in the dark and hesitantly brushed his hand through Theon’s hair. Theon nuzzled into it, and Robb’s heart pounded.

The truth was, Robb had been noticing a change in his feelings towards his charge over the last few weeks. Just a gentle shift, so slight it had taken him a while to even say what, exactly, it was. It had always been there, but now that Theon had put on a healthy amount of weight, it was easy to see that he was a handsome boy. Striking, even, especially when he smiled. Which was rare, but Robb treasured every one. In another life, he would have been quite the charmer.

But it was more than that. The shift had started with daydreams. When Theon would smile or, even rarer, laugh—or his eyes would light up with excitement at some little thing Robb had always taken for granted—unbidden images came to Robb’s mind. Images of taking Theon in his arms, holding him tight. Kissing him.

These daydreams had troubled Robb, but not as much as the actual dreams, where he… He didn’t want to think about that too much. He was horrified enough as it was to wake up to evidence that he’d been having... _those_ sorts of dreams…about a boy he was supposed to be taking care of. It didn’t seem right. It felt like a violation of his responsibilities and Theon’s trust. He’d vowed to never, _ever_ …

And then of course Theon had to pull something like this. And it was the exact opposite of how his dreams went. It was mortifying, and just reinforced Robb’s resolve to keep their relationship as it was. It had been—what?—three months since Theon had arrived? Four? Enough time for him to put on weight, but not nearly enough time to touch that haunted look about him. And certainly not enough time for him to forget his time under Ramsay Snow’s care.

“Theon,” he whispered.

“Mmm?” Theon answered back.

“When I said I don’t want it to be like that between us…I just meant…” He gnawed on his lip as he thought about what he wanted to say, and how. “I don’t want you to…do _that_ …because you think it will make _me_ happy. You should do it so _you’ll_ be happy too.”

“It would make me happy to make you happy.”

“But you know, you should also want… _that_ …for yourself.” He was glad Theon couldn’t see him blushing in the dark. He really was stumbling over this. Maybe it would be better to simply drop the issue and never bring it up again.

“I am happy whenever you’re happy,” Theon said, his voice so full of sleep that Robb couldn’t muster the resolve to keep arguing with him.

 _And I’m happy whenever you’re happy_ , he thought.

He continued to brush Theon’s cheek with the pad of his thumb and kept his hand there until he felt Theon’s breath even out.

 _I’m going to make sure no one ever hurts you ever again_ , Robb thought. _Even that means me._

***

Despite the awkwardness of the situation, it wouldn’t be the last time Theon crawled into bed with him and stayed there until morning. He did it the night after the assassin’s attempt on Bran’s life. And the night after that, when Catelyn decided she needed to ride south. Robb also woke up to Theon’s arms wrapped around him the night after Bran woke up. It felt more and more like their positions had been reversed. Where before Theon had come to him _for_ comfort, now Theon was the one _giving_ comfort. And he was…damn, but his presence alone, waking up to the warm body and Theon’s face peaceful in sleep did so much to ease Robb’s mind.

He didn’t know how he’d get through any of this on his own.

Except now his daydreams were getting…stranger.

Rather than just taking Theon in his arms and kissing him, they were standing under the weirdwood tree together, reciting their vows, and Robb was draping his cloak over Theon’s shoulders. Officially bringing him under his protection.

When he caught himself having these visions, he quickly shook his head. What silly nonsense. He couldn’t _marry_ Theon. The very _idea_ of it…

“My lord?”

Robb blinked and realized he’d been doing it again. Losing his attention to those images again.

“Sorry, Maester Luwin.” He shook his head. He definitely should not allow himself to get distracted while taking counsel. “You were saying?”

Maester Luwin gave him a mild look of disapproval. No doubt Ned was highly attentive whenever important matters were brought to his attention. But Ned was not here. And now, neither was Catelyn.

“The flood in White Harbor, my lord. The Manderlys report minimal loss of life, but they say a key bridge was washed away in the deluge. They are requesting you send men to help them repair it in a timely fashion.”

“Do it,” Robb said. “Send a reply to Lord Manderly that he can expect…”

“A half dozen men should suffice,” Luwin prompted.

Robb shook his head again, feeling stupid. “Right.”

Luwin’s face softened. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Robb leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not sleep well last night,” he lied. He’d slept quite well, with Theon beside him, and woken with the other boy’s arms around his waist, face buried in his chest.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, gentler than his father’s, but welcomed all the same. He looked up into Maester Luwin’s kindly face. “I’m old enough to remember when your father first became Lord of Winterfell. He had his own share of learning to do.”

It didn’t seem possible. Ned always knew what to do, what needed to be done.

“He did not expect to _become_ Lord of Winterfell, after all. It was a title thrust upon him by the untimely death of his father and elder brother. But he took to it. And you’ll take to it too, my lord. You have always made your father proud.”

Robb nodded without really agreeing. “What’s the next message?” He pointed to the messages in Luwin’s hands. The pile had dwindled considerably, much to his relief.

Maester Luwin set the top one aside—the Manderly letter asking for help with the bridge—and was left with one final note. Robb did not like the way the old man’s face twisted. “I…may have saved this one for last, my lord.”

“What is it?”

“It’s from the Iron Islands.”

Robb bolted upright in his chair. “The Greyjoys?”

“It came with a kraken seal, yes.” Luwin unrolled the message. Whatever the Greyjoys had seen fit to send, it was short enough to be sent by raven. Was that good or bad? “Word has reached them that Theon was taken from House Bolton. They want him returned.”

“Returned?”

Maester Luwin nodded and handed over the message. It was written in a tight script, the words more or less as Luwin had described them. There was no signature.

“They can’t…no, it’s out of the question,” Robb said. “Theon’s not fit for that sort of upheaval. Not right now.” He gritted his teeth as he realized he had implied that Theon _might_ be fit sometime in the future.

“You don’t owe them an explanation,” Luwin said. “Theon is our guest to guard against any future hostilities on the Greyjoys’ part.”

“No,” Robb said. “That’s not—” It was true, in the strictest sense of the word. It was the reason Theon had originally been taken from his home and given to the Boltons. But in Robb’s mind, it had stopped being true the minute Theon had been brought to Winterfell. He wasn’t a hostage. He wasn’t a prisoner. He was a guest.

But that also meant he was free to leave. If he wanted.

“What shall I tell them?” Luwin pressed.

Robb ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Not yet. I need…I need to speak about this with Theon.”

Luwin folded the Greyjoy letter back up, although that seemed to be a distracted gesture more than anything. “My lord, if I may…you and Theon have become close.”

Robb felt his face become hot.

“I’ve seen Theon grow quite a bit since he’s come to us. I hardly recognize him as that frightened young man I tended to when he first arrived. You’ve managed to build his trust in a way no one else has.”

“And I’ll continue to build his trust,” Robb said. “Theon _isn’t_ our prisoner.”

“Guest, ward, charge…use whatever words you feel comfortable with, my lord,” Luwin said without a hint of reproach in his voice. “But Theon is a Greyjoy, and that fact alone makes this situation difficult to navigate. You cannot allow your feelings to guide you. Not in this matter. You have a responsibility to your subjects, to the realm, and the other houses of the North.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Robb said, though in truth he had no intention of doing so. He would not make the call without consulting Theon. And if Theon wished to go home, he wouldn’t stop him. As much as the very thought weighed in his gut like lead, he wouldn’t stop him.

Luwin seemed to sense this but did not push the issue. “In that case, I don’t believe there’s anything else, my—”

There was a knock at the solar door. “My lord!”

“I am in a meeting with Lord Robb,” Luwin called. “Is it urgent?”

“Very!” the voice on the other side of the door said. “There’s been a message. From King’s Landing. It’s about Lord Eddard!”

***

“I heard about your father,” Theon said as they took their supper together in Robb’s room.

Robb looked up from his untouched meal. He supposed it was inevitable that Theon had heard. Probably most of Winterfell had heard.

“I’m sorry,” Theon said. “I’m sure he’ll be alright. They wouldn’t hurt a highborn prisoner.”

_It didn’t make any difference in your case_ , Robb thought but did not say. Just picked at his food. “I don’t know what to do, Theon,” he admitted. “The Lannisters…they’ve basically declared war on House Stark. And the entire North by extension. They’ve killed members of House Stark, taken my father and sisters prisoner. This can’t go unchallenged.”

“Then you’ll challenge them,” Theon said.

Like it was just that easy.

Robb snorted. “I’m not certain I’m the one to do it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what to do. Should I call the bannermen? March south on King’s Landing? They’ll do it if I ask.”

Theon was quiet. “They’ll do it because they trust you.”

“What if I’m not worthy of their trust?”

He looked up at the sound of the other chair scraping against the stone. Theon stood and came around their little table, and knelt down at Robb’s side. “You’re worthy of their trust, my lord.” His eyes held Robb’s, a certainty burning intensely in that gaze. “You are a good man, and I would follow you into the Seven Hells if you asked it.”

Robb was uncomfortably aware of how close Theon’s face was to his own. “I would never ask _that_ of you.”

“I know. I would follow you anyway, wherever you’re going.”

Robb drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Theon…if you had the chance to go home, would you?”

Theon blinked in surprise, seemingly caught off guard. “I am home, my lord.”

“No, I mean…your real home. With your family. On the Iron Islands.”

Theon’s shoulders began to rise and fall quickly, and a plaintive wail rumbled in his chest. “I don’t…I’m not…”

“Never mind,” Robb said, quickly waving the matter away with his hand. They would need to broach the subject eventually, but it was obviously causing Theon distress. “Of course you can stay at Winterfell.”

Theon’s trembling died away, though he still looked to be on the edge of tears. “I want to be by your side, my lord. Wherever you go. Please, I know I am a useless creature but I can—”

Robb shut him up. Before he knew what he was doing, he had closed the small space between them, pressing his lips against Theon’s. Just a second. Maybe not even a full second. But Robb relished in the feeling of Theon’s lips against his own, the faint taste of what he’d been eating, and a taste that was thoroughly Theon as well. What he imagined the ocean tasted like.

Then Theon let out a muffled, surprised sound, and Robb was drawing back. Like he’d burned himself on a hot iron. He pressed himself against the back of his chair. “I’m sorry!” he cried out. “Theon, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—I was just—” He couldn’t justify himself. He’d wanted to kiss Theon, and so he had. And right after Theon had spoken so sweetly of trusting him. He was a monster. The worst kind of monster.

“My lord,” Theon said. He reached out, then paused. “May I touch you?”

“I…” Robb could only manage a nod in response, though he couldn’t imagine _why_ Theon would want to touch him. After he’d…

Theon’s warm hands enveloped his face, and Theon’s face was so soft. There was no fear there, much to Robb’s surprise. “It’s alright, my lord. I already told you, I want it. But I only want it if you do.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same way!?” Robb cried in frustration.

Theon cocked his head, eyebrows drawn in concern.

“Of course I want it, Theon,” he continued, not bothering to lower his voice, because he couldn’t. “I’ve been able to think of hardly anything else since I realized I lov—” He quickly bit down on his tongue.

Theon’s eyebrows shot up.

“But if your only goal is to make me happy, with no thought to yourself, then I…I can’t…” Robb sank the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Don’t ask that of me. Don’t ask me to treat you like you’re not a person I care deeply for.”

There was silence between them. Heavy. Stifling. Gods, but Theon’s skin was so _hot_ against his own. And the memory of his lips…

“Robb…” Theon said. It was the first time he’d called him that. _Just_ that. _Robb_. “I want it.”

“But—”

“I want it because I trust you,” Theon interrupted, laying a finger against Robb’s lips. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

“Never,” Robb said around the finger.

“Do you want it, Robb? Tell me truly. If you say no, I will never…” A sadness washed over his face that genuinely surprised Robb. “I will never ask you again. I swear it. But please do not think I don’t want it. I do. Truly.”

Robb felt every beat of his heart as if it were an eternity. “I’ve never… _that_ …” They’d been dancing around the word. Or maybe Robb had been the one dancing and Theon had just been quietly following his lead. “…with anyone.” He swallowed. “Can we…?” His entire body was pulsing. “Can we perhaps start by just kissing again?”

Theon smiled, and it made Robb want to kiss him all the more. “Of course.”

Robb reached out tentatively, took Theon’s face between his hands, the way Theon had done to him just moments before. The skin so warm and alive under his fingers. “May I kiss you?”

“Of course,” Theon said, and Robb gently guided him in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for nothing explicit in this chapter. This installment was already getting quite long and there was a lot of ground to cover. Maybe another installment... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )


	14. Puzzled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Northernfieldsforever gave me an either/or prompt: 
> 
> _Robb surviving the Red Wedding and getting to the Dreadfort in time to see Ramsay torturing Theon and realising the truth about the Boltons, and rescuing Theon and the days after of Theon getting used to Robb being alive after all and Robb decided not to execute him and will take care of him now instead._
> 
> _An alternative was for some reason I've been wanting to read Throbb going through a break up but then resolving it later and it turns into reassuring that "Now and always" is still a thing between them and pretty much angst that is resolved and is fluffy in the end._
> 
> I _kinda_ went with both, though obviously more of the first one. Hopefully this one doesn't come off as too rushed. 🙏 It was another one that was quickly getting out of hand, length-wise.
> 
> Warnings for flashbacks to the Red Wedding and both Robb and Theon dealing with PTSD.

_A traitor and a disgraced king clung to each other under the thick furs. Outside, a cold and deep winter raged._

_Robb closed his eyes as he felt Theon’s hand tracing his face, up his cheek and brow and to his hair. “You came back,” Theon murmured. “You came back. They said you were dead. But you came back.”_

_“I’m not sure I did,” Robb admitted._

_Part of him had died there, at the Twins. With his mother and Talisa. He had not come back whole._

_Theon’s hand was so soothing, even with its missing finger. Theon had not come back to him whole either._

* * *

The retreat from the Twins had been grueling. Limping along with his remaining men. In truth, he didn’t remember much of it, wracked with pain and fevers from his wounds; they’d had no maester on hand to deal with the arrows, though Robb often dreamed Talisa was by his side, tending to him. Her hands cool on his burning skin.

A whole life passed before him on that retreat. Talisa holding their son, watching him take his first steps, teaching him to ride a horse. They had many children. A large family they raised in a free and independent North. They told him of his namesake, Ned Stark, and how they had avenged him by taking King’s Landing and putting the Lannisters to the sword.

Arya and Sansa were there, married and with families of their own. Well…perhaps not Arya. But Sansa, certainly. And Bran and Rickon. Bran became a knight, just like he’d always wanted. And Rickon…Rickon was still a wild child, unruly and untamable. He’d gone to join Jon at the Wall, and the two of them would come south to visit Winterfell often.

Theon was there too. Robb thought he should be angry with Theon, but his mind was too hazy to remember why. Maybe Theon had just told some off-color joke again. It didn’t matter. He’d forgive him. He’d always forgive Theon.

When Robb’s fever broke, he knew at once that it had all been a dream. Talisa and their son were dead. His mother was dead. Sansa was a prisoner of the Lannisters; their father had not been avenged. Arya was missing. Bran and Rickon were dead. Theon had murdered them.

After that, he was able to ride his own horse. The ride through the swamps at the Neck gave them more trouble, and they lost more men to disease. Robb somehow managed to survive that, though it felt more like a curse than a blessing. Like the Gods were mocking him, forcing him to keep going when really he just wanted to lie down and never get back up.

There were times when he might have, were it not for the surviving men and women who still looked to him. _How_ could they still look to him? When it was his doing that had brought them all here? They should hate him. They should despise him.

Why didn’t they?

***

Despite the growing cold and shortening days as they made their way north, being back in their homeland seemed to bolster the men’s spirits. Even Robb felt a slight lightening of his mood the closer they came to Winterfell.

He smelled it before he saw it. The scent of smoke and charred wood still hung heavy in the air, even though the castle had been burned months before. At Theon’s hand.

The fire had gutted most of the wooden structures but left the walls largely intact. The bodies that remained were either burned beyond recognition or picked clean by wild animals. Bran and Rickon were somewhere amongst them. What had Theon done with their bodies?

They made a makeshift barricade and closed themselves inside the walls, and there, in the ruins of Robb’s childhood home, they rested. They tended to their wounds as best they could. They buried the dead. They spoke of what to do next.

News from the countryside said that loyalties were fiercely split between the Starks and the Boltons. Lord Bolton had officially been named Warden of the North, and there were those who were not eager to continue backing House Stark. But there remained many who were. The Manderlys from White Harbor, House Umber, House Mormont.

It took nearly a month to gather enough men together to make an attempt on the Dreadfort. A month where Robb spent long, cold nights alone in his bed, under his furs.

He’d never realized how he’d taken it for granted, that there would always be a warm body next to him. He and Theon and Jon would often share a bed when they were children, and even though Jon’s nights with him had become less frequent as he’d gotten older, Theon’s had grown more constant. Robb had never thought anything of it. Theon was his best friend. And on cold nights—or nights when one or the other of them didn’t feel like being alone—they would crawl under the sheets together and keep each other entertained with jokes and stories.

Obviously there had not been much of that on the campaign trail, and he’d felt the sting of Theon’s absence even more starkly when he’d sent him off to bargain with the Greyjoys.

 _I should never have done that_ , he thought, lying in his bed in a ruined Winterfell. _I should have kept him by my side._

To what end? Theon had treachery in his heart. He’d proved it by taking Winterfell, murdering his brothers, burning their home to the ground. It only proved that Theon had never truly considered Winterfell his home. Perhaps he’d never truly considered Robb his friend.

But after Theon had left, there had been Talisa, and he couldn’t lie that she’d filled a hole in his heart he hadn’t known was there since Theon had gone. Nights with her were warm, and close. He felt whole when she was near, when he could feel her there beside him.

But now, she was gone too.

They were all gone.

It was only him. And the nights were growing colder.

***

More men died in taking the Dreadfort. Robb was sick of all the dying, the killing. It wasn’t even disgust he felt as he crossed the battlefield and its piles of dead bodies. It was…numbness. Just utter emptiness.

He had sent these men to their deaths, and he couldn’t even summon the will to feel anything. Talisa would hate him.

 _I’m not even human anymore_ , he thought. _I wonder if I’ll ever feel anything ever again_.

And then he found a traitor in the dungeons.

***

He didn’t immediately recognize the man on the cross, and at first thought he might even be dead. But then the man had begun coughing, a horrible, wracking cough that rattled his entire body, and Robb ordered him to be cut down. The poor soul had been left there several days, by the look of it.

The men pulled him down and laid him out on the ground. There were wounds all over his chest and body. Burns, whip marks, cuts. He was dangerously thin and shivered against the stones, exposed skin almost blue with the cold.

“This isn’t real,” he whimpered. “This isn’t happening. It’s a dream. A dream.”

Robb recognized the thrall of delirium in the man, and he stepped forward and knelt down at his side. “You’re safe now,” he said.

Wide eyes locked onto him. “You…you came back.” Chapped lips pulled into a grin. “Robb.”

It knocked Robb’s breath from him. Like a punch. Like being hurled violently from a dream. He knew those eyes. He knew his name on those lips.

“Theon?”

“Not Theon,” the man said. “Reek. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.”

And then his head sagged against the stones and he fell unconscious.

Robb was frozen in place, kneeling over this prisoner.

“Your Grace?” one of the guards asked.

Robb’s mouth opened and closed. Theon Greyjoy? The man who’d betrayed him? Burned his home to the ground? Murdered his brothers? It couldn’t be. It couldn’t…

“Your Grace?” the guard asked again.

Robb shook his head and stood. “Have his wounds seen to, and call me when he’s awake. Tell no one, and make sure no harm comes to him before I can speak with him.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

***

The call that Theon Greyjoy had woken up did not come for another day, almost into the night. But when it did, Robb left what he was doing and hurried to the maester’s quarters. There he found Theon on a pallet, shaking and covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

“Is he lucid?” Robb asked.

“He comes in and out,” the maester said.

Robb approached the pallet and knelt down at Theon’s side. “Theon,” he whispered.

“Not…Theon…”

But it was Theon. Robb knew those eyes, even glazed over as they were.

“Why did you do it?” Robb asked. He could not summon any anger. There must be a well of it inside him, but it was running dry at the moment. “Why did you betray me?”

“I…Robb?” Those familiar eyes landed on him. A shaking hand reached out for him. “This is a dream?”

“No.” Robb grabbed hold of his hand. He didn’t mean it as comfort, just to show that he was real and here. To keep Theon from slipping back into dream.

Theon had the audacity to smile at him. “You came back.”

“Why did you betray us, Theon? Why did you kill my brothers?”

“…wasn’t them,” Theon said.

“Wasn’t them?”

“Two farm boys.” His smile wavered. “I never thought I would…”

“Theon, what are you saying?”

“Bran and Rickon…they’re still alive.” Theon’s grip tightened on Robb’s hand. “I didn’t kill them. I swear it, Robb. I swear I didn’t.”

Robb sank back on his haunches in shock. It might not be true. Theon was delirious.

“But you took Winterfell.”

His smile finally fell away completely. “I fucked it all up, Robb. All of it. My family…Winterfell…I pissed it all away.” A tear slipped out of his eye and slid down his cheek, thicker than the sweat on his skin. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”

A thousand emotions came rushing in then, and Robb felt like he was adrift in a sea of them. Crashing over him. Pulling him this way and that. He could do nothing but bend his head over their joined hands and sob.

***

The story came out slowly over the next few days as Theon recovered—although “recovered” was a loose term. For any of them, really. 

Theon was far from guiltless, but he had not been the one to burn down Winterfell. And more importantly, he had not murdered Bran and Rickon. Robb quickly dispatched a rider to the Wall, in case the lost Starks had turned up there. And in the meantime, he lingered at the Dreadfort. “So that we may regroup,” was his given reason, but in truth it had more to do with Theon being unfit for travel.

He found himself unwilling to leave Theon, and told himself it was because Theon needed to answer for his crimes—the crimes he _had_ committed, at least. But the part of him that had started _feeling_ again knew it was something else. Something that gnawed at him at night, when he was cold and alone in his bed.

His dreams were troubled. Some nights he saw Talisa, the look of shock and incomprehension on her face as the Frey man had thrust his knife into her belly. She would look at him, eyes wide and confused, hands trying to stem the blood. Some nights, he saw Theon in her place.

On the fifth night of these restless dreams, Robb woke and felt a compulsion he could not fight. He threw off his furs and walked from his chambers, feet bare and numb by the time he reached the maester’s quarters. The maester was in his own room, sleeping after a long day of tending to the walking wounded, and there was no noise from within as Robb made his way to Theon’s pallet.

Theon lifted his head groggily as Robb nudged him aside and crawled in alongside him. It was a tight fit, the two of them. Theon’s body was cold against his own. “What—?”

“Why did you do it?” Robb asked, laying his head on the pillow.

Theon blinked blearily at him, still not entirely awake.

“Why did you betray us?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

That was perhaps the clearest answer he’d given yet.

“I deserve to die for what I’ve done.”

“Sometimes I feel the same way.”

“It’s your right to execute me.”

“No, I meant…” Robb pressed his cheek against Theon’s back, felt the bandages where the maester had dressed his wounds. “ _I_ deserve to die for what _I’ve_ done.”

“What have you done?”

“I fucked everything up,” Robb murmured. “Everything.”

***

Theon never asked to be forgiven, for which Robb was grateful. He didn’t know if he could say the words Theon needed to hear. A part of him did forgive Theon, though. The part that mattered. So when Theon was well enough to travel again, Robb brought him back to Winterfell.

He decided early on that Theon was not going to be his prisoner. He decided even earlier than that that he wasn’t going to have Theon’s head.

Robb had hoped Theon would be at least a little happy about his decision, but he just responded, “It’s your right to have me executed.”

“It’s my right not to as well,” Robb said.

Theon was curled around him. There was much more room in Robb’s bed, and yet they still huddled as if they were crammed together on that tiny pallet. Sometimes, it was easy between them to be like this, like no time had passed since Robb had first set out from Winterfell. And other times it hung heavy between them. Tonight it was heavy.

“You could go home, if you wanted,” Robb said, because neither of them had spoken in a long time. “To the Iron Islands. I wouldn’t stop you.”

Theon’s fingers traced over the scars on Robb’s chest, where the Freys’ arrows had struck. “I won’t leave you again. Don’t ask it of me. Take my head if you’d be rid of me, but don’t send me away again.”

“Of course not.” Robb kissed the top of Theon’s head.

***

“Why don’t you hate me?”

Robb hated that he had to pause to think, because Theon might get the wrong impression. It was a question he’d been asking himself ever since he’d found Theon in that dungeon, but it was not something he’d been able to adequately put words to. He carded his fingers through Theon's hair as he thought, feeling Theon's bare skin against his own, warmer than any empty bed with a mountain of furs. He still saw Talisa in his dreams, but on nights like these, feeling Theon's body next to him brought him comfort.

"Why don't you despise me?" Theon asked when Robb took too long to answer.

“Because I don’t want to,” he finally settled on.

Theon chuckled.

At first Robb thought he was crying, the way his shoulders shook. But no, it was a chuckle. Not a big chuckle, not a full-on laugh, but a real one.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“I guess you _are_ King in the North, after all,” Theon answered. “You don’t need to justify what you do.”

It was a joke. Not a funny one. Not a good one. But Theon’s chuckle made him feel more whole than he’d been in…ages.

He hugged Theon tight to him. Could they ride out winter like this, just the two of them under their furs? Of course not. That line of thinking belonged to dreams. But they _could_ have this. This wasn’t a dream, their bodies warm against each other. Theon, curled against the hollow of Robb’s body like he belonged there. A puzzle piece so different from Talisa, and yet just as snug. A piece of himself he’d been missing for too long and which he’d never expected to get back.

Perhaps it wasn’t Now and Always, as it had been before, but it was Here and Now, and that was good enough for Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing one of the rules for prompts. You can now put in another request even if I've already filled one for you this round.


	15. Worn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> attackfish said: 
> 
> _Theon and Sansa shittalking someone's wardrobe choices._
> 
> I actually had this one sitting in my files for a while, and this prompt was sort of the kick I needed to finish it. Sorry the request itself is more of a framework to show Theon and Sansa bonding over fashion.
> 
> There are brief mentions of past Sansa/Littlefinger and Theon/Ramsay, both implied to not have been healthy relationships.

“Awful,” Sansa said.

“Just tragic,” Theon agree.

She sipped her latte and he flipped his sunglasses down. The woman in the ugly leggings walked by without realizing how awful and tragic she was.

“I mean, at least she’s got a nice ass,” Theon added.

Sansa smacked his arm.

I

Looking back, Sansa was surprised by how _un_ surprised she’d been, that day she’d opened the door to her parents’ bedroom to find Theon dressed in one of her mother’s dresses. If she _had_ made a noise of surprise, it was only because she hadn’t expected to find him there. Theon didn’t seem to exist outside of the kitchen and living room, where he spent hours playing video games with Robb. In fact, in her five years, she couldn’t recall seeing him with _out_ Robb at his side. It was like coming home to find someone had rearranged the furniture.

They stared at each other a moment, Sansa with her hand on the doorknob, Theon reaching for the zipper on the dress’s back.

“Sansa, I…I was just…”

“You wanted to try on Mommy’s clothes too?”

His face went very pale then.

“I like that one,” she said.

“You do?” Theon asked.

“It’s one of my fav-o-rites.”

“You think it…” He turned sideways. “You think it looks good on me?”

Sansa stood swinging her arms back and forth. “Yes. It’s the same color as your eyes.”

It was the sleeveless blue-green one her mother sometimes wore to parties. It came to her mother’s knees, but on Theon, it came to his ankles, nearly dragging on the floor. He wasn’t as tall as her mother, but he was taller than her.

“Can you get the dresses down from the high hangers?” she asked, suddenly struck with inspiration. She’d always wanted to try on the pretty red one, but she’d never been able to reach that high.

Sansa was used to the face adults and older kids like Robb and Jon made when they were about to tell her no—the way their lips would quirk down, the way their eyebrows would lower in disapproval. She saw it forming on Theon’s features for a second, just a hint of tooth in his scowl. But then he seemed to reconsider.

“Alright. But you can’t tell anyone about this. Understand?”

She nodded vigorously. “I won’t tell an-y-one.” It seemed natural to be afraid of being caught. The last time she’d been caught trying on her mother’s clothes and jewelry, she’d been thoroughly scolded. So she didn’t question why he wouldn’t want anyone knowing about this.

***

Sansa didn’t even realize it wasn’t normal for boys to wear dresses until they were handing out roles for the school play and the boy who got to play Merlin the Wizard got to wear a pretty dress with stars all over it. When she’d told him how much she liked his dress, he’d angrily shouted, “It’s not a dress! It’s a wizard’s robes! Boys don’t wear dresses!” And the whole class had laughed and the boy had refused to wear his costume after that and the teacher had scolded Sansa because of it.

“You got me in trouble at school,” she huffed.

Theon looked at her in the mirror from where he was admiring himself in her mother’s long-sleeved, midnight-blue dress. The one with the sequins around the collar. “We don’t even go to the same school,” he said, pulling the waist tight behind him so that it hugged his figure better. “How could I get you in trouble?”

Sansa folded her hands across her chest. “You made me think boys wear dresses.”

He released his hold on the dress’s waist and turned to actually look at her. “You’re just figuring it out _now_ that this isn’t normal?”

Her face grew warm, like it had when everyone had laughed at her.

“Why do you think I only dress up over at your house? My dad would give me a proper beating if he found me putting on girls’ clothes.”

“He would?” Sansa asked in shock. “Why?”

Theon rolled his eyes. “Because it’s not normal.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that. There were all these adult rules that nobody ever bothered to _explain_.

“Do you think I should stop?” Theon asked. “Now that you know it’s wrong?”

Sansa clenched her fists. “But I _like_ playing dress-up with you.” And not just because he could reach the hangers and higher shelves. Putting on clothes by yourself was fine and all, but wasn’t it better when there was someone else around too? “It’s no different than the school play, is it? I think if boys can wear wizards’ robes, then boys can wear dresses too.”

Theon cocked his head. “Huh?”

“If your dad asks, you can tell him you were dressing up as a wizard.”

Theon stared at her with his brows furrowed, as if he were having trouble sounding out a new word in a book. “You’re weird,” he declared.

Sansa felt her face heat up again.

“But I guess we’re both weird, then.” He cracked a grin, and even though Sansa still felt like he was making fun of her, at least it just seemed like regular Theon-teasing and not adult-rules-you-don’t-know-teasing. “You don’t mind if I keep coming over to raid your mum’s stuff?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Good.” He turned back to the mirror. “Besides, your mum has nicer stuff than mine.”

II

“Sansa?”

Sansa froze as she reached for her latte.

“Little Sansa Stark?” The barista leaned against the counter. “That is you, isn’t it? I’d recognize that hair anywhere.”

Sansa brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, self-consciously. _I should have dyed it black_ , she thought errantly. She thought she’d moved far enough away.

“You look like a hot version of your mum.”

She looked up then, and might not have recognized the barista if it weren’t for his toothy, lopsided grin. “Theon Greyjoy.” She forced a friendly smile on her face. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” Hadn’t _heard_ from him in ages, though she’d thought about him occasionally. At her most lonely.

“What are you doing in Sunspear?” he asked, heedless of the line forming behind them.

“Studying at the university.”

“Yeah? What are you studying?”

“Fashion.”

“Yeah?” he said again. “Well, you always had good taste for that sort of thing.”

She felt her face grow warm. “How have you been?”

His answer was more hesitant than it should have been. “Well enough.” He slid her order across the counter to her, and she noticed he was missing a finger on his right hand. His face was more haggard than she remembered.

The woman behind her in line cleared her throat loudly.

“Looks like I’m holding up the line.” She wrapped her hand around the steaming cup and forced another cordial smile. “It was nice to see you again.”

“You too.”

She turned to go. Then stopped. “Um…Theon?”

He looked up from preparing the next customer’s order.

“Would you maybe…want to meet up sometime?”

There wasn’t anything toothy or cocky about the smile he gave her. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

“So…” He turned his cup his in hands. Sansa felt a little silly asking him out to coffee when he already worked in a coffee place, but he’d insisted he didn’t mind. He was dressed dapperly, in a well-tailored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As a kid, she’d always thought he was handsome, but she’d never appreciated how _sex-on-wheels_ handsome he really was. “How have you been holding up?” he asked. “I mean, Sunspear’s pretty far from Winterfell. You doing okay with the change?”

“I needed the change,” she answered, staring into her own cup.

“I hear you,” he agreed.

A long moment of silence passed between them.

She wondered how much he knew about what had really brought her to Dorne. It had been a big scandal in Winterfell—high school teacher caught sleeping with student. Sansa’s name had never appeared in any of the papers alongside Mr. Baelish’s, but everyone _knew_ anyway. Catelyn and Sansa had both agreed she would finish the school year at home, graduate early, and apply for university.

If Theon did know, he must have realized she didn’t want to talk about it, and Sansa was glad for that, at least.

“What about you? What have you been up to?” She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You just sort of…vanished. I never heard what became of you.”

He’d dropped out of school at sixteen and moved away. Sansa had always suspected it had something to do with his falling out with Robb—which had something to do with Theon’s father—but it infuriated her that no one would tell her exactly _what_ had happened.

He grinned ruefully but didn’t look up from his mug. “The short of it? Ran headlong from one fuck-up right into the next.”

She was quiet a moment, then said, “I hear you.”

He looked up, and in that instant, a strange sort of understanding passed between them. Here they were, so far from Winterfell. Maybe their reasons for ending up here weren’t so different.

“Do you still…?”

“Cross-dress?” Theon finished for her.

“I never really thought of it as that when we were doing it,” she admitted. “It just seemed normal.”

Theon snorted, but it seemed good-natured. Then he grew serious again. “Sometimes, when I’m feeling down and thinking about everything…sometimes I still do. But it’s hard finding stuff that fits right, y’know?”

Sansa looked up sharply.

Theon’s eyebrows creased in worry. “What? What is it?”

“I might be able to find a mannequin your size in the art room.”

***

Theon stood examining himself in the three-way mirror for several long moments. Several long moments during which Sansa’s heart didn’t beat at all. Finally he turned to her. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re as beautiful as I remember you,” she said.

Theon laughed like it was a joke. “I meant the dress, silly. Of course it’s a beautiful dress. Much too nice for the likes of me.” He ran his hands along the sleek fabric. It wasn’t quite the color of his eyes, but Sansa had tried her best. “Do you think it looks good _on_ me?”

“I’m being serious,” she said. “I was _always_ jealous of you when I was a kid. You always wore my mom’s dresses better than I did. You had those beautiful long legs…”

Theon flashed her that toothy grin. “You think I have nice legs?” He lifted the hem of the skirt to show off his slender leg. Apparently he still shaved, even though he was obviously no longer on the high school swim team. “Why, thank you, Sans.”

Her faced flushed warm. “You know, I learned everything from you.”

“Oh God!” he cried, clutching at his chest, then laughed.

She joined him in laughing. “Anyway, of course I think the dress looks good on you. _I_ made it, didn’t I?”

“You’ve got a good sewing hand to go along with that good eye of yours,” he agreed, turning back to examine himself in the mirror. Sansa had really outdone herself, if she was tooting her own horn here. A pretty quick throw-together, but the way it settled on his body was flattering. The fabric rippled like water with every movement.

She had a dozen questions she wanted to ask him. _What happened between you and Robb? How did you lose your finger? What have you been doing all this time? Why didn’t you say goodbye before you left?_ But she settled on, “Why do you like dressing up so much?”

“I don’t know,” he answered casually, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Why do you?”

“Because I like feeling pretty.”

“Me too,” he said. “I like looking good. Not that I don’t think I look good in men’s clothes, because I obviously do…” He gave her a saucy wink, and Sansa blushed. “But you know I’ve never been about limiting myself. For better or worse.”

“Sometimes I feel like I limit myself _too_ much,” Sansa said, fiddling with her hands.

“Well, there _is_ propriety,” Theon said, taking on an exaggerated snobbish lilt. “We must keep up appearances, darling.”

Despite herself, Sansa giggled.

“It’s kind of weird,” Theon said, swishing his dress as he turned back to admire himself in the mirror. “When I’m dressing up, I feel more like myself. It’s when I’m out in public that I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”

“I feel the same way,” Sansa admitted. “For what it’s worth, Theon, you could make anything you’re wearing work.”

“Now _that’s_ not true. There’s plenty that even _I_ couldn’t make work. There’s even stuff so hideous even _you_ couldn’t make it work, Sans.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“You’re new to Dorne,” he said. “It might be a fashion capitol, but there are some truly tragic people wandering around Sunspear if you watch closely enough.”

“Well…maybe you’ll point them out to me.”

“I would be happy to,” he said. “How much do I owe you for the dress, by the way?”

Sansa waved her hand. “It’s fine. Consider it a down payment for teaching me to find ugly clothes in Dorne.”

***

“There,” Theon hissed, discretely pointing across the courtyard, but Sansa had already seen.

“Cargo shorts, socks, _and_ sandals?” she gasped in mock horror. “No!”

“I see it too often.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“It’s awful, Sansa, truly awful,” Theon said, laying a dramatic hand over his forehead. “Nobody understands my pain.”

“It’s alright, Theon,” she said teasingly, taking his hand in her own. “I’m here now.”

He looked out from between his fingers, and Sansa realized perhaps she’d been overly familiar with him. She tried to pull her hand away, but he quickly laid his other hand over hers. “I am glad you’re here, Sansa.”

She looked at their joined hands resting on the table, drinks and fashion disasters forgotten for the moment. How strange it was, she thought, to be sitting here with Theon Greyjoy of all people, all the way on the other side of the country. What were the odds?

“Me too,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, maybe I’m not glad for the things that _led up_ to me being here, but…I am glad we met up again.”

He smiled genuinely.

“You know…” she went on, “I did think about you, after you left.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “We used to have so much fun dressing up in my mother’s clothes. And when you left, it felt like…it felt like I’d lost a friend.” She shook her head. “I know that’s silly. You were older and you had your own life.”

“I’ve _never_ had my own life,” Theon chuckled. “I thought about you too, sometimes. I thought about how you were the only one I was ever really myself around.”

Sansa’s cheeks burned. “I had the worst crush on you,” she blurted out, and her face burned even more when he didn’t even look surprised. “I knew you would never look at a little kid like me, though.”

“Well…you’re not a little kid anymore,” he said. “And I…well, my sister says I’m a ‘manchild,’ but I like to think I’m ‘adult adjacent’.”

Sansa ducked her head. “I’m not sure I’m looking to get into another relationship right now,” she admitted, thinking about Mr. Baelish.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Theon said. “Me neither.” He patted her hand, and she was suddenly hyperaware of his missing finger. “I’m not suggesting we get married and buy a house or anything. But Sunspear can be a lonely city if you don’t know anyone. So maybe you’d want to…I don’t…get a coffee occasionally…take in a movie...that sort of thing. We can commiserate on all the unfortunate fashion around here.”

Sansa lifted her head, let her smile match Theon’s. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”


	16. Shone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Levit asked: 
> 
> _Can you do a modern AU taking place like a few weeks after Theon has been rescued from being kidnapped and tortured by Ramsay. And like either Robb or Asha are having difficulty convincing him to do Normal things (eat, sleep in a bed, etc). But like they’re just trying so hard. Just like lotsa hurt but also comfort ? (Also bonus points if you can squeeze Jeyne Poole in somehow)_
> 
> The details of Theon's treatment at Ramsay's hands are very vague in this one, but undeniably still there.

Robb woke up to the sensation of light flashing across his eyelids and opened his eyes just as the crash of thunder rumbled through the entire house. He blinked and looked over at his alarm clock. The neon green lights were out. Which meant the power was out.

It wouldn’t be the first time a thunder storm has caused a power surge.

With a sigh, he got out of bed and rummaged around blindly for the flashlight he kept in his nightstand drawer for just such an occasion. It flickered to life, casting a beam of light around the room. Robb grabbed his bathrobe off the back of his door and made his way out into the hall.

The house was quiet, save for the pattering of rain against the roof and the clicking of the grandfather clock in the living room. As Robb passed Theon’s room, he paused to listen. No sound from in there either. Should he check to make sure Theon was alright? Thunder storms had never spooked him before… _before_. But Theon was easily spooked these days.

Robb lifted his hand to knock—gently—but decided against it. He’d get the power working first and _then_ check. That way he could assure Theon everything was taken care of.

He navigated down one flight of stairs, awkwardly training the light at his feet, and then another, down into the basement. The breaker box was in the far corner. Robb knew where it was by heart now. He flipped the switches and waited for the telltale sound of electricity humming in the walls to yank the overhead chain. The fluorescent lights flickered on, illuminating the basement in all its glory.

Satisfied, Robb headed back upstairs.

As he passed Theon’s door on the way back to his own room, he did pause to knock. Just a gentle rap with his knuckles, enough that Theon would hear if he was awake. “Theon,” he said in a low voice, “are you alright in there?”

The house was bathed in a momentary flash of brilliant blue-white light. And then the answer thunderclap, which rattled the entire house.

“It’s alright, Theon,” Robb called, sure Theon couldn’t be asleep through that. “It’s just a storm.”

He winced. He was doing it again—talking to Theon like he was a child.

“I fixed the lights, so you can just go back to sleep,” he went on.

There was no answer.

“Theon?” He nudged the door open and peered in.

Theon’s bed was unmade, the sheets thrown back in a hurry.

Robb’s heart surged up into his throat. “Theon?” He pushed open the door and came in, hitting the switch. Light just showed what he already knew: Theon wasn’t there.

He turned and ran.

“Theon!”

The bathroom. Maybe Theon had gotten up to use the bathroom?

He checked the guest bathroom closest to Theon’s room. No sign of him there.

“Theon, where are you?”

The kitchen. Maybe Theon had gotten up to get a drink of water?

He nearly tripped running down the stairs, but there was no sign of Theon in the kitchen either.

“Theon!”

He went room by room, flicking on lights, checking closets, under beds, even the garage. Places where he’d found Theon before.

But not now. Theon wasn’t in the house at all.

“Shit.” Robb ran a hand through his hair, and in a split-second decision, headed for the front door. He’d check up and down the block, see if he could find Theon before calling anyone. If Asha found out he’d lost her brother…

No time for a jacket. He raced outside. The wind whipped a wall of rain into his face. The light from his flashlight danced across the lawn. Up and down the street, it was pitch black. Even without the power outage, the Stark house was at the end of a remote country lane, and streetlights didn’t come out this far. The world was one big raging abyss that Theon could have disappeared into.

“Theon!” He shouted to be heard over the storm. “Theon!”

He headed for the gate; it was still closed, but Theon could have easily jumped it if he were so inclined. He stopped when his feet tangled in something. The sensation of something wet and slippery slithering over one’s feet in the dark was singularly unnerving, and Robb cast the beam of his flashlight down in a hurry.

It was Theon’s flannel pajama bottoms, discarded and thoroughly soaked through.

For the second time that night, Robb’s heart tried to jump out of his throat.

“Theon!” He swung the light around like crazy, darting one direction and then the next. “Theon! Where are you!? Answer me! Theon!”

A flash of lightning lit the world in light brighter than day, and in that brief second, Robb saw Theon. Or what he thought might be Theon. Unless there were other naked men running around the neighborhood, in which case, Robb would seriously consider moving. He aimed his flashlight at the figure slumped over by the flowerbeds.

“Theon!” He ran, and nearly slipped as the grass squelched under his feet.

The figure didn’t respond to him. He seemed too busy with something, his arms digging furiously in the dirt.

Robb dropped the flashlight and dropped down by the figure’s side. It _was_ Theon. Of course it was. He was drenched, hair plastered against his forehead, skin nearly blue. How long had he been out here? He was grabbing at handfuls of mud, bringing them up and smearing them all over his body—his bare chest, his face. All the while murmuring, “Reek, Reek, rhymes with weak, rhymes with freak…”

“Theon!” Robb grabbed his wrists to still his movement, and only then did Theon even seem to realize he was there. His head shot up. The flashlight’s glare glinted off his wide eyes.

“Robb?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Robb said. “It’s Robb.”

Theon looked at his hands, still caught in Robb’s grip, and then down at his body covered in runny mud. “I…I woke up and realized I was too clean…” he said. “Master would—Ramsay would—not be happy.”

“He’s not here, Theon,” Robb said, because the more he used Theon’s name, the quicker Theon came down from these events. Usually. “He’s in jail, remember? He can’t hurt you.”

“I was too clean…” Theon murmured, hanging his head. “I can’t be—I’m not allowed to be…I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Robb said. How many times had Theon apologized to him? A thousand times? A hundred thousand times. Hardly any of it for anything that required an apology. “You’re soaking wet. Will you come back in?”

Theon gave a miserable nod. Robb let go of his wrists, and Theon let them fall into his lap.

“I got the power back on,” Robb said as he helped Theon to his feet. Theon was like a dead weight. “We can get you a nice warm shower. Or would you prefer a bath?”

“…bath,” Theon said. “I’m sorry. I’m getting you dirty.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Robb assured him. “It’s just a little mud.”

He helped Theon back towards the house, pausing only to pick up the flashlight from where he’d dropped it.

“Here,” he said, once they were inside. “You wait here and I’ll go fetch some towels, yeah?”

Theon nodded, and Robb hurried off to grab some towels from the downstairs linen closet. He chose the biggest, fluffiest towel and handed it to Theon, who wrapped it like a blanket around his shoulders.

“There we go,” Robb said, taking a smaller towel and using it to rub down Theon’s head.

“You,” Theon argued. “You’re wet. And your clothes…”

“I’ll change in a bit. No worry. I’m going to run you a nice warmth bath in the downstairs bathroom, and while you’re soaking, I’ll fix you some hot cocoa. How does that sound? Good?”

Theon nodded.

Robb stayed to make sure Theon got into the bathtub without slipping, and then, leaving the door ajar in case anything went wrong, he went to change into dry clothes. He dug some semi-clean sweatpants and a white t-shirt from the hamper so he wouldn’t have to go upstairs. As he headed back for the bathroom, he caught sight of the phone in the living room, its red power light mocking him. With a sigh, he lifted it out of its cradle and scrolled through the contact list.

Asha answered on the third ring. “What is it, Stark?” She knew there was only one reason he would be calling her in the middle of the night. Robb admired her ability to sound urgent without also sounding panicked.

“Theon…wandered out of the house,” he said. “But I found him!” he added quickly, before Asha could ream him.

There was a long, weary sigh from her end. “I’ll be out in a bit. Should I bring Jeyne?”

“No,” Robb said. Jeyne could bring Theon out of an episode better than either of them could. Sometimes. But mostly when he got like this, he shut himself out from everyone until he was ready to deal with whatever had set him off. “I don’t want to wake her up over this.”

“Alright, Stark,” Asha said, and Robb could hear her getting out of bed. “Give me an hour, okay?”

“Okay.”

Robb set the phone back in its cradle and slogged down the hall towards the bathroom once more. His legs felt heavy, like every step was a monumental effort. He was tired. He was so tired. But Theon needed him.

He knocked gently on the half-open door. “You okay in there?”

“Yes,” Theon said, and even if he hadn’t answered, the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub would have told Robb he was still in there.

Still, Robb poked his head through to find Theon sitting there, knees to his chest, staring into the water. “Theon?”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Theon said. His face was so close to the water, his breath sent ripples across its surface. “It feels like I shouldn’t—like he’ll _know_.”

Robb came in and sank to his knees next to the tub. “He can’t hurt you.”

“I _know_ ,” Theon said. “But it still _feels_ …”

Robb was quiet. He was in way over his head. There were people who could help Theon better, but for some reason Theon wanted him. Even though he was hopelessly inept.

“Do you want me to help you get cleaned up?” he offered.

Theon gave a small nod. “If it’s you…it doesn’t feel so wrong.”

Robb grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack and wetted it in the tub and wrung it out and then began gently scrubbing at Theon’s back. He was healing well, the doctor said, but he would always have the marks. There wasn’t much to be done about that. Theon didn’t flinch as the rag rubbed against his scars. He said they weren’t sensitive like that, that the pain was deeper, almost as if it were carved into his bones instead of his skin. Robb couldn’t even imagine.

“I’m sorry,” Theon said. “The thunder woke me and I—I didn’t know where I was and—I panicked.”

“It’s alright,” Robb said. “Asha’s on her way over.”

He nodded to that.

“If either one of us gets back to sleep, do you want to spend the rest of the night in my room?” Robb offered.

Theon sniffled and lifted his head. “Could I?”

“Of course,” Robb said. “You can spend every night in my room if you want.”

“It all feels like a dream. It feels like the next time I wake up, I’ll be back there and…”

“Shhh,” Robb shushed, and wrung the dirty water from the rag. “He’s locked away, Theon. And if he ever tries to hurt you again, he’ll have to get through me to do it. And Asha. And maybe even Jeyne too.” He ran a hand through Theon’s wet curls. He was warmer now, at least. “You don’t need to apologize, Theon, for any of it. You’re not a burden.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. Theon _was_ a burden, but more in that Robb’s efforts to help him felt woefully inadequate. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to bring his friend back from that dark place Ramsay Bolton had shut him away in.

“Theon…” Robb paused in his work. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

For however many times Theon had apologized to him, it really should be the other way around.

Theon looked at him with those startled eyes. “Why?”

“I’m just…I’m sorry I’m not better.”

There was silence. Outside, the rain continued to patter, and somewhere far off, thunder rumbled. Inside, the water lapped against the sides of the tub, and neither one of them seemed to know what to say.

Finally, Theon reached out for Robb’s hand, to still any movement he might make with the washcloth. “You’re already better than I deserve.”

Robb started to shake his head, but Theon’s grip tightened.

“Thank you.” His smile was small and forced, but there was a genuine glint in his eyes. “Thank you for coming to find me tonight. And all nights.”

“Of course,” Robb said. “I’ll always come find you.”

Theon’s smile grew just a touch wider, just a tad less rigid. “I know you will,” he said. “You’re my light in the darkness, Robb.”

He released Robb’s hand and Robb continued washing the last of the mud from Theon’s body and there was silence between them again. But this time, it was almost soothing.


	17. Joined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> frosmooth said: 
> 
> _I honestly am craving a/b/o with omega Theon x alpha Robb (something fluffy would be nice c:) Don’t really have anything specific in mind just omegaverse is my guilty pleasure so just want to see more of it lol_
> 
> This one contains **explicit NSFW content**. Obviously this fic also contains a/b/o and related tropes, so if any of the following potentially squicks you out, feel free to skip:
> 
> -alpha/beta/omega dynamics  
> -mpreg  
> -intersex omegas (in my a/b/o fics, everyone is some degree of intersex, but I don't go into great detail here)  
> -awkwardly written sex scenes

“No,” Robb said, cutting through the air with his hand. “Absolutely not.”

From his pallet, Theon pouted. “So you’re really just going to leave me here while you ride into battle? Alone?”

“I’ll have my guard,” Robb said, pacing to the far end of the tent and then back. He always had a nervous energy about him before a battle. It gave rise to a protective instinct deep inside Theon. “There won’t be any real danger.”

“Then you’ll let me ride with you,” Theon argued.

“No! That’s not what I meant!” Robb ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.” He trudged back to the pallet and sank down on his knees, laying his hands on Theon’s stomach, though Theon had not started to show yet. “Not in your condition.”

Theon snorted. “The Wildlings say that there is no fiercer warrior than a pregnant omega, that the instinct to protect becomes so strong it throws them into a berserker rage.”

“We’re not Wildlings,” Robb said, “and you know I’d just worry about you. And the baby.”

Theon sighed. It was going to be a long nine months at this rate. “Very well. I suppose I have no choice but to obey the will of my lord husband.”

Robb sat up and gently tilted Theon’s chin. “You know it’s not like that.”

Theon huffed. He did know. Robb had never been that way with him. Not as an omega, not as a hostage-ward, not as an outsider to Winterfell.

“Very well,” he said. “I will remain here while the strong warrior alphas ride into battle. But you have to promise to return alive, and preferably with all your pieces still intact.” He looped his arms around Robb’s neck and drew him near. “You have to be alive to tell Cat she’s going to be a grandparent. _I’m_ certainly not going to be breaking the news to her.”

Cat had never approved of Theon, and the angriest he had ever seen her was when she’d learned the two of them had eloped. She threatened to get a septon to annul their marriage, and might have gone through with it if the unsavory business in King’s Landing hadn’t gone down shortly after.

Robb laughed and eased Theon back onto the pallet, climbing on top of him. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell her.”

He began to trail kisses down Theon’s throat, but Theon turned his head away. “I’m not sure you should be taking me before you go into battle,” he said teasingly. “They say backed up balls make warriors more eager for the fight.”

Robb groaned and sagged against Theon. “You wouldn’t. You’re not that cruel.”

“Hmm,” Theon hummed. “Might give you extra incentive to come back with all your _bits_ intact.”

Robb placed his hand gently on Theon’s cheek. “You’re all the incentive I need, Theon. Of course I’ll come back.”

Theon looked up into his eyes, so full of understanding and love, bordering on worshipping. No one had ever looked at Theon that way before. Ever. It wasn’t his fault he’d fallen in love with Robb. There wasn’t an alpha, beta, or omega in the Seven Kingdoms who could blame him this one weakness.

He wrapped his arms around Robb’s neck and brought him down for a kiss. Robb kissed back, pressed against him with his body, stoking the fire burning between Theon’s thighs. Being around Robb was like being in constant heat. He could never get enough.

“Please,” he moaned, pulling away from the kiss. “I was bluffing before. The Ironborn always fuck their salt wives before going into battle.”

“Oh, do they now?” Robb kissed the underside of Theon’s jaw.

“It’s good luck,” Theon said, and canted his hips. “The Drowned God will look favorably on you in the upcoming battle.”

“I could always use a little good luck.” Robb slid his hand down between their bodies, rubbing gently between Theon’s legs. Too gently. The friction of his clothing was pleasant, but like a tiny trickle of water to quench his raging thirst.

With a frustrated groan, Theon swatted Robb’s hand away and began undoing his laces. “On the other side of the coin,” he said as he worked his breeches down over his ass, “if you don’t fuck me—and fuck me _right now_ —the Drowned God will be very displeased.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to anger the Drowned God,” Robb laughed, and he undid his own laces, slipping his breeches down mid-thigh.

Theon took a moment to enjoy the sight of his husband’s cock, already hard for him. And as much as he would have loved to drink in the entirety of Robb’s naked form, he didn’t think he could wait that long. He wrapped his arms around Robb’s neck again and pulled him back down.

“Fuck me,” Theon breathed. “Need you in me.”

Like the dutiful husband he was, Robb obliged, sliding in with one thrust.

Theon cried out and held onto Robb as they joined. He imagined this was what coming home was like, the sense of fullness and belonging. When he had agreed to marry Robb, he’d known he would likely never “come home” to the Iron Islands again. He was no longer a Greyjoy, but a Stark now, and the child growing inside him would also be a Stark. And yet he had no regrets. Because Robb was his home, and he could have _this_ every day.

And when Robb began thrusting, stars erupted behind Theon’s eyes. Brighter than anything. The feeling of Robb moving in and out of him, the sensation of his own cock trapped between their sweat-slicked bodies, the pressure building in his stomach. His throaty, needy moans mixed with Robb’s.

The world fell away around them. Ned being taken prisoner by the Lannisters. Calling the banners and marching south. The battle tomorrow—even if it wasn’t a key position, there was always danger. But none of it was in the tent with them in that instant. It was just the two of them.

Theon came first, spending against Robb’s stomach as white and black flashed alternately behind his eyes. Robb followed a few thrusts later. Theon felt the warmth of his release, reveled in it. Even though Robb’s seed had already taken root, it didn’t mean he couldn’t still enjoy this feeling.

He grabbed hold of Robb’s wrist as his husband started to pull out. “Stay.”

“But my knot…”

“Is there somewhere you need to be?”

“I should probably be planning for the battle,” Robb said.

“It can wait,” Theon said. “Stay with me.”

Robb didn’t say anything, just laid back down as his knot began to form. Theon felt it swelling inside him, and his own walls hugging tight against it. Locking them together.

In his days of visiting the brothels in Winter Town, Theon had never allowed an alpha to knot him. Hadn’t really seen the appeal. It wasn’t until Robb that he’d come to look forward to these quiet after-moments, staring into each other’s eyes. He brushed his hand along Robb’s jaw, felt the rough stubble there. Looked into his husband’s eyes and saw that look again—understanding and worshipful—and felt his heart swell.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me,” he said. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“I’ll come back.” Robb took his hand and kissed the palm of it, then held it against his cheek again. “I’ll always come back. You’re my home, Theon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are closed while I fill. Thank you for all your prompts!


	18. Tended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kenniiohontesha asked on [Shone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/59272540):
> 
> _Can I request a similar one w/ Jeyne?_
> 
> I don't know. _Can_ you?
> 
> JK. Here you go.
> 
> Quick warning: This one contains some implied self-harm/suicide attempt.

“Jeyne?” Theon knocked again, even though he was already pushing the door in. There was no response, and he let himself in.

The Poole family home was modest, as far as this neighborhood went. The entrance hall opened up into an unfussy living room. It was the sort of home that looked like people actually lived in it—or had, at least. Theon stepped around the recliner where he imagined Vayon Poole had spent many family movie nights surrounded by his daughters as they huddled around the television. Jeyne had never been on Theon’s radar much back then—just one of Sansa’s little friends—but she’d always struck him as a happy girl with a loving family. He’d been jealous.

He paused to cup a hand to his mouth. “Jeyne!”

No answer.

Not far past the living room was the kitchen, and the round dining table. And her phone, lying face-down among a forest of other knickknacks. Theon picked up the phone. Dead. Battery drained.

He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, it meant his calls simply hadn’t been getting through. On the other, it was very unlike Jeyne to let her phone run down like that. Perhaps she’d gone out? That seemed unlikely too. Jeyne…Jeyne didn’t go out much. On her own. Something Theon understood all too well.

He set the phone down among the other knickknacks—shopping lists, unpaid bills, medicine bottles. He felt a cold prickling in his veins as he stopped on that last one. Would Jeyne really leave her medicine bottle lying out here? Hesitantly, he turned it around and read the label. Sleeping pills. The bottle was light and empty when he picked it up, and the cold prickling turned to pure ice.

“Jeyne!” He dropped the bottle and tore through the house. “Jeyne! Answer me!”

She wasn’t in the kitchen, in the dining room, or the garage. He ran around to the entryway and took the stairs two at a time, calling out her name. But she didn’t answer. The bed in the master suite was made and neatly tucked in, as were the beds in the other three rooms. He checked the two bathrooms with trepidation, but found no sign of her there either.

He was coming out of the master bath, ready to call emergency services, when he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. His head jerked up and his eyes followed the movement out the window, across the backyard.

Jeyne had once told Theon, when Ramsay had left them alone in the dark together, that her mother was a gardener. But looking out the window to the yard, Theon couldn’t imagine Mrs. Poole letting her yard get so overgrown and wild. More like a jungle than a garden. But there was something moving out there, a bit of white flitting between the bushes.

He jammed the phone into his pocket and ran outside. “Jeyne!” He didn’t care if the neighbors heard. “Jeyne!” His shoes crunched on gravel, hidden beneath thorny undergrowth, as he fought his way through the garden. He could see the white thing moving. A dress, he realized, as he drew closer.

His arms were pricked and scratched by the time he finally barreled out of the bushes and onto what had once been a quaint little courtyard. Now, it was overgrown with vines, the birdbath tilted and dry. Kneeling down on the ground was Jeyne, in a flimsy white nightgown, brown hair tangled. She had a watering can in her hand and was tipping it over onto some daisies.

“Jeyne!” Theon was so relieved to see her, up and alive, that he raced across the courtyard and hugged her from behind.

She was like a limp doll in his arms. And then with a sudden jerk, she lifted her head and looked around, eyes wide and fearful. Her eyes landed on him and she drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Th-Theon? What—what’s going on? Where am I?”

Theon quickly released her. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. He shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you—didn’t you hear me calling?”

Jeyne placed a hand on her head. “I don’t…I thought I heard someone but…” She looked down at the watering can in her hand, then all around. She was barefoot, and her feet were as scratched as Theon’s arms were. “How did I…?”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours,” Theon said. “You weren’t answering your phone or your messages. I thought…”

She looked up at him. The fog of sleep still lingered in her eyes, and she shook her head. “What am I doing out here?”

“I don’t know.” Theon realized he was out of breath. Or maybe he hadn’t been breathing at all since he’d found that bottle. “Let’s get you inside.”

He held out his hand and she took it and allowed him to reel her in close. Together, they picked their way back towards the house.

“You were worried about me?” Jeyne asked.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been sleeping well and…I tried a new sleeping pill to help with the…to help me sleep. It must have worked, because I didn’t hear the phone at all.”

“How many pills did you take?”

She gave him an odd look. “Just the amount it said on the bottle. Why?” Understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, Theon, you didn’t think…?” She clutched at his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I would never—I left that empty bottle on the table to remind me to buy more. It was just a sample my doctor gave me. Though I don’t think I’ll be refilling my prescription if _this_ is the sort of effect it’s going to have on me.”

“You think you were sleepwalking?” Theon asked, opening the sliding glass door and ushering her in.

“I guess so.” She sat down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table and began picking the leaves off her nightshirt. “I dreamt I was helping my mum out in the garden. I used to help her when I was a little girl.”

“Sounds like a nice dream,” Theon said.

“I think I’d prefer to have my dreams stay in my head,” Jeyne laughed. It was a hollow sort of laugh, meant to lighten the mood. “I really am sorry for worrying you, Theon.”

“Hey, how many times have _you_ had to come over to talk _me_ down?” He smiled, even though he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. This was absolutely not who we was—the comforter, the nurturer. Or, at least, it wasn’t the person he _used_ to be. Maybe this was who he was now, ever since he’d broken out that basement window and dragged himself and Jeyne through the broken glass to freedom.

He itched awkwardly at his arm.

“Oh my god, Theon,” Jeyne said, lurching forward in her chair. “Your arms are all scratched up!” She grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him closer to examine the scratches. If it had been anyone else, even Robb, he would have flinched for sure, drawn back at the unexpectedness of it. But this was Jeyne. And he didn’t flinch, even when she ran her slender fingers over his cuts. “You big dummy,” she muttered.

“Yeah well—your feet aren’t much better,” he muttered.

She tske’ and dropped his arm. “Stay here. I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

“No, no, no.” He put himself in front of her. “Your feet are fucked up. _You_ sit and _I’ll_ go get the first aid kit.”

She glowered up at him, lip jutted out. Then sank back into the kitchen chair. “It’s under the sink in the guest bathroom.”

He found it easily and laid it out on the kitchen table. Inside were tweezers he could use to pull out splinters and disinfectant. He wasn’t really bleeding, but a few of the cuts on her feet were, so he insisted he treat her first. She relented with a dramatic sigh and let him prop her foot in his lap.

His hands still shook, even after all the physical therapy he’d been through, and he had to admit, Florence Nightingale he was not. He tried to be gentle, though, as he pried the thorns out of the soles of Jeyne’s feet.

“Did you come all the way over here on your own?”

He glanced up from his work. “It’s not that far.” In truth, he’d agonized about what to do, who to call. Pacing back and forth in his flat for over an hour, waiting for her to answer any of her messages.

“Hmm,” she said, a sort of noncommittal noise. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“I just mean…for caring enough to come,” she said. She winced as Theon pulled a particularly deep splinter free. A single bead of blood rose out of the hole left behind.

“Sorry,” Theon said, and dabbed at it with a tissue.

“It’s fine,” she assured him.

A moment of silence followed.

“It used to annoy me, you know,” she said, “how much my parents worried over me. But now…I miss it. I miss having someone worrying about me.”

It wasn’t a feeling Theon could relate to, but he did understand what it was like to suddenly wake up one day to no parents, no family.

“But _you_ don’t need to worry about me,” Jeyne went on. “You’ve done so much for me already.”

Theon snorted. Hardly.

“I might have been the one to break the window, but you’re the only reason either of us got out,” he said. “I’d given up a long time ago by the time you got there. I mean—you saw it for yourself, how I...” He trailed off. “It was you who lit the fire under my sorry ass, so as far as I’m concerned…” He set the tweezers aside and reached for the disinfectant. “ _I’m_ the one who owes _you_.”

He brought the swab to her foot, but was stopped by her gentle hand on his wrist.

“I’d hate to think you’re doing this because you feel like you owe me anything,” she said.

He looked up into her eyes. Big and brown and fully awake now.

“Of course not,” he answered. “I worry about you because I want to.”

“Me too. About you, I mean.”

“I’m just sorry I had to wake you up from your nice dream.”

She smiled sadly. “Oh, Theon, look what I was doing to my feet. It was good that you dragged me out of that. Don’t apologize for it.” She gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. “You were just being Prince Charming, rescuing Sleeping Beauty again.”


	19. Started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MymbleHowl said: 
> 
> _So I have a request for a Great Gatsby-esque Theon, with Jon as the awkward neighbour and cousin to the Stark-beloved across the bay._
> 
> Just one of America's greatest novels, but no pressure. ;^_^
> 
> Anyway, this deserves a much longer fill, but we'll consider this more of a setup to a potentially larger scenario. And I've intentionally left the time period vague. ;)

Jon hated parties. Always had.

Leaning against the porch railing, he took a pull on his cigarette and let out it out in a long, slow stream. He’d never been much of a smoker, but it gave him a convenient excuse to slip away from the party for a few minutes.

Inside, the chatter and music continued to drone, but outside, the night was silent. A soft breeze rose up off the water, and Jon let it blow through his hair.

 _What am I doing here?_ he asked himself, not for the first time. _With these people?_ They weren’t his type of people.

Well, yes they were, he supposed. He’d been going to these sorts of high society parties since he was young. A sense of obligation. Neither of his parents had cared much for parties either. “We must keep up appearances,” Jon muttered to himself now, using his father’s oft-repeated words.

Granted, this was not exactly the sort of party his parents would have attended, and most likely would have avoided if appearances truly did mean anything. The music was loud, the party activities less-than-reputable, but it still stank of the excesses Jon was used to in his youth, the money being thrown around, the _over-the-topness_ of it all.

And worse, he didn’t know anyone.

He raised his cigarette to his lips again, but paused when he caught a small flash of light in the darkness at the other end of the veranda. At first he thought it was a firefly, the way it flared for a second and then faded. But a sort of afterglow remained, orange against the pitch-black. Jon looked down at the same color burning at the end of his cigarette. A fellow smoker.

Jon sighed. He’d come here to socialize. _Was_ that why he’d come? He couldn’t remember now. But it seemed he should at least go over and make a token introduction.

The boards creaked under his feet, and out in the harbor, a buoy clanged. As he drew nearer, he could just make out the shape of a man resting on the porch swing, silhouetted by the light from the windows. He had one knee up, the other stretched out across the swing. The swing’s chains clinked ever so slightly as it rocked.

“Not enjoying the party, Snow?” a voice drawled.

Jon held out his cigarette like a shield. It was his alibi, after all. “Just stepping out for a smoke.”

“Mmm,” the figure—that Jon now supposed must be Greyjoy himself—hummed in agreement. He brought his own cigarette to his mouth and pulled in a deep breath and held. When he exhaled, clouds of smoke billowed from his nose. “They can get a bit overwhelming, can’t they?”

Jon looked down at the cigarette perched between his fingers. It was burning down, but he wasn’t especially motivated to take another drag.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, and even to his own ears it sounded rather inauthentic.

“We’re always interested in a new face in Winterfell,” Greyjoy said, just as inauthentically. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah.” Jon flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. He wouldn’t be able to use it as an excuse for much longer. “I probably won’t be able to stay long.”

“Mmm,” Greyjoy hummed again and took another pull. “You’re Robb Stark’s cousin, right?”

Jon looked up sharply at that. He didn’t know why that had caught him so off guard. Surely it was common knowledge around here that he was related to the Starks. Maybe it was the quick change of topic. Or maybe it was the way Greyjoy said Robb’s name. Like a child trying out a swear word for the first time.

“Yes,” Jon answered after a moment. “Do you know the Starks?”

Greyjoy didn’t answer right away. He rested his hand against his knee, let the cigarette smolder for a few seconds. The swing creaked gently. “We go back,” he said. “Were you at the wedding?”

“Er…no,” Jon said. He supposed he meant Robb’s. “I was…I couldn’t come.”

“She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”

“Jeyne?” Jon nodded. “Yeah, she’s nice.” Not the sort of person he’d ever imagine Robb would end up with, but they seemed happy enough.

“Nice girl,” Greyjoy repeated. “For a nice guy like Robb.”

Greyjoy seemed to be talking to himself, and Jon suddenly felt like he was intruding on the man’s private thoughts. Made worse that he couldn’t see Greyjoy’s face in the dark. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I think I’m going to head out,” he said. “Let you get back to your party.”

“I don’t suppose she’d ever come to a party like this, eh? Jeyne?”

Jon was about to bring up the illegal substances he’d seen inside, but decided against it. Instead, he lifted his foot and stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe so as not to get ashes on Greyjoy’s porch. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

***

Jon woke the next morning to a loud ringing. He thought it might be his head at first, but after blinking the sleep from his eyes, he realized it was the telephone. His head _was_ ringing though. It felt like he’d been drinking all last night, though obviously he hadn’t indulged at all. With a groan, he rolled over and lifted the telephone from its cradle.

“Hullo?”

“Were we going to have lunch or not?” a woman’s voice asked.

Jon sat up. It felt like he left his brain resting on the pillow. “I’m sorry. Who’s this?”

“What? You don’t even remember me? You had your hands all over me last night.”

“I what?” He frowned. “I’m sure I didn’t, miss.”

On the other end of the line, there was the sound of air being forced through pursed lips. “Aww, you’re not fun. Well, if you weren’t drinkin’, then I expect you _do_ remember me introducin’ meself. Ygritte.”

Jon paused to think. He didn’t have to think too hard, though. “Yes, I do remember that,” he said.

“Then do you remember agreein’ to have lunch with my today?”

“I…no, I don’t.”

“That’s because I’m askin’ you, right now.”

Jon scratched at his hair. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, got something pressing to do today, have you?”

“Well…no,” he admitted.

“Good, then I’ll see you at Hobb’s at noon.”

And with a click, the line went dead.

Jon spent the better part of the morning considering her offer. Yes, he certainly did remember the woman. Her mass of tangled red hair made her hard to forget. Apparently he’d made some sort of impact on her, even though they couldn’t have spoken for more than five minutes. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to socialize with the locals…in a more controlled environment.

He dressed and combed the bedhead from his hair and headed out to the café, which was within walking distance. He saw her from afar, seated out on the patio, bright red hair just as wild as last night. She was dressed in a sort of knitted cardigan and plaid skirt, far from the height of fashion—especially around here—but it suited her. Jon couldn’t imagine her in a sundress or silk blouse.

She was perusing a menu, and he pulled out the chair opposite her and seated himself. “Hello, Jon Snow,” she said without looking up. “Knew ya’d show up eventually.”

“Er… _you’re_ the one who invited _me_ ,” Jon pointed out. “Remember?”

“Someone had to get you out of your house,” she said, peeking slyly over the top of her menu. “Your face’s too pretty to be indoors all summer.”

Jon felt his face flush. He was glad when a waiter came out and filled their water glasses. He took a quick drink and waved the waiter off that he wasn’t ready to order yet. “So,” he said, turning back to Ygritte, “do you go to many of Greyjoy’s parties?”

“Sometimes.” She finally set down her menu and looked at him. “Someone’s always throwin’ a party round here. Theon’s are always guaranteed to be wild.” She grinned at him, revealing a slight gap in her front teeth. It gave her a decidedly mischievous look.

“What do you know about him?” Jon asked. He couldn’t deny that the odd encounter last night had stayed with him. “Greyjoy.”

“Theon?” She shrugged. “Not much. Throws wild parties but never seems to enjoy himself. Every time I’ve tried to talk with him, he always seems…far off, I guess? Somewhere else?” She took a sip from her water. “Think he’s waitin’ for someone to show up one night.”

“Really?” Jon cocked his head. “Who?”

“If I had to guess…the boy across the bay.”

“The boy across the bay?”

“Robb Stark,” she clarified. “You know the Starks, I take it?”

“We’re related.”

“Old money round here,” Ygritte went on. “Anyway, Theon’s in love with the oldest son.”

Jon was in the midst of sipping his water, and instead it went spraying out of his mouth. “Come again?”

“I thought everyone knew, but apparently it’s something only I’ve figured out,” she said. “Tormund said he doesn’t see it at all. But I tell you, all ya’ve got to do is hear the way Theon talks about his ‘old friend’ Robb Stark. Sounds like he’s trying out for a character in a fancy Shakespeare play or something.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jon agreed, thinking back. Was _that_ what he’d heard last night Greyjoy’s voice?

“I think it’s brilliant.” Ygritte clapped her hands. “Now, taken, I’ve never met Robb Stark, but if he’s anything like the other snobs round here, he could someone to loosen the stick up his arse.”

Jon couldn’t stop the smile on his face. “Robb is definitely…” He considered a word that couldn’t then be turned around on him as well. “Straight-laced, we’ll say.” He leaned forward on the table. “But if that _is_ the case, Greyjoy—Theon—is chasing a rainbow. You realize Robb’s married, right?”

“And you realize he only married that girl because they had a pregnancy scare, right?”

Jon sat up straight. No, he hadn’t realized that.

“None of my business,” Ygritte continued with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I don’t have any dog in the fight.”

“Jeyne is a nice girl.”

“I’m sure she is. Maybe Robb’s even happy with her.” Ygritte took another sip from her drink, this one conspicuously long, as if she were drawing the moment out. “Or maybe Robb spends nights on his porch watching the house across the water and thinking about the boy who lives there.”

Jon sat back in his chair, contemplating that. It was true that he’d initially wondered why Robb had married Jeyne. Again, she was a nice girl, but they didn’t seem suited to each other. Jeyne was quiet, reserved. Robb was outgoing. He’d told Jon during one of their dinners together that he sometimes wished he could get out more, but that Jeyne was not terribly interested in parties or social activities.

It had just been an off comment. Robb always seemed happy enough with Jeyne, whenever Jon saw them together. Robb doted on her, and she clearly held him in high esteem. But Jon couldn’t deny there was a coldness between them. A sort of invisible screen, like a pane of glass separating them. Dining with them was like dining with two old friends, not necessarily husband and wife.

“I suppose there’s only one way to know for sure.” Ygritte placed an elbow on the table and leaned forward with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Look, Jon, I like you. You’ve got a stick up your arse as big as the rest of ‘em, but you’re the fresh air Winterfell needs. I’d like t’ get t’ know you better.”

“Oh,” was all Jon said.

“Let’s spend some time together and shake this place up, huh?”

Jon shrugged noncommittally. “I’m not—”

“Nothing _illegal_ ,” she said, her voice hushed. “But I’ve got a project we can work on together.”

“What sort of project?”

“Ah, so you’re not so quick.” She leaned back again, reached into the pocket of her plaid skirt, and pulled out a tin of cigarettes. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” She took one out and popped it into her mouth. “I’m talking about bringing Theon and Robb together.”

“Oh,” Jon said again. Then he realized what she meant. “I’m not sure I want to be an accessory to adultery.”

“Adultery? Who said anything about adultery?” She pulled a matchbook out of her pocket next and broke off one of the flimsy sticks inside. Then lit it by swiping it across the rough material along the side of the book. She lit the end of the cigarette in her mouth and puffed until she had an orange ember glowing.

Jon watched her draw in a deep breath and then pluck the cigarette out of her mouth between her thumb and forefinger. She smoked like a man. It…wasn’t unattractive.

She rounded her lips and blew out one smoke ring, then another, and Jon watched that too, how they hovered in the air before fading away on a gust of wind.

“We’d just be bringin’ ‘em together in a _social_ sense.” Ygritte smile at him. A knowing smile that put dimples in her freckled cheeks. “What they do after that is up to them, isn’t it?”


	20. Served

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attaining asked: 
> 
> _Could I request EITHER 1) a continuation of the Theon fostered at the Dreadfort fic that's all hurt/comfort porn OR 2) there's a lot of Robb rescuing Theon from Ramsay hurt/comfort, but what about JON rescuing Theon and comforting Reek/Theon? Either canon or Modern AU._
> 
> I thought it might be good to end on a continuation of the Dreadfort!Theon trilogy [[Part I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/58597429), [Part II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/58720654#workskin), [Part III](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/58955485#workskin).] And who knows? I might yet turn this into a full-fledged fic one day. We'll see. ;)

There was a knock at the door. Robb found it a little troubling that anyone would think to look for him in Theon’s room and contemplated not answering, but a harried voice on the other side of the door said, “Lord Greyjoy, are you in there? If you should see Lord Stark, please inform him that the first of the bannermen are arriving.”

“Y-yes, I will!” Theon called out in a quavering voice. “Thank you.” He turned to Robb with wide eyes. “I’m to inform you—”

“I heard,” Robb said, giving him a playful shove.

Theon broke into a smile and shoved back. And then they were grabbing at each other and crushing their lips together.

Robb pulled away first. “I should probably meet the bannermen. I did call them, after all.”

“Aye,” Theon said, playing with Robb’s hair while a sad smile played at his lips, “you must do your duty as Lord of Winterfell.”

Robb sighed. “Well…the messenger said the bannermen are arri _ving_ , not that they have arrived. Which means I probably have some time.”

Theon’s face lit up again.

Stricken with inspiration, Robb grabbed his hand. “We can watch them approach from the window,” he said.

He led the other boy over to the single window in his chambers, a tall, narrow opening that let in daylight through its latticed panes. You could see out over the walls of the castle, to the winding road beyond, though obviously not as well as if you were up higher, such as in the Broken Tower. Robb didn’t want to think about the Broken Tower, though.

They leaned forward, their breaths mingling together and fogging the glass. Robb reached out to wipe it away and glanced over at Theon. Seeing his face in profile, eyes alive and bright, Robb’s heart swelled.

The bannermen were on the way. He was going to ask them to march south with him. And if they agreed—and by the nature of the oaths they’d sworn to House Stark, they would—then they would set out. What would become of Theon if Robb left Winterfell? Would Theon want to come with them? Could he handle that, life on the campaign trail? Moving from place to place. Little privacy. To say nothing of all the people he would be forced into contact with. Robb couldn’t possibly ask that of him.

But on that same token, would Theon really be happy to stay behind without him?

Uncertainty gnawed at the pit of Robb’s gut, and he turned his eyes back to the road. _We will cross that bridge later_. He needed to worry about one thing at a time, like receiving the bannermen.

Right now, he could just make out the standards appearing over the horizon, bearing their colored banners. You couldn’t make out the sigil from this far away, but Robb knew the colors of all the Northern houses by rote. A red sigil on a pink field. That was…

He felt Theon tense beside him, then pull away from the window.

Then the implication of whose banner that was struck him, like a block of ice. Bolton.

“Theon.” He spun from the window.

Theon ran behind his bed and crouched down. “Reek, Reek, rhymes with weak.”

“Theon.” Robb chased after him and sank down next to him. “Theon, it’s alright.”

Theon was curled into a tight ball, knees drawn to his chin. He shook his head. “No, no. He’s—he’ll take me back.”

“No, he won’t.” Robb scooted closer. “Can I touch you?”

In answer, Theon lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Robb and pulled him in, pressing his face against Robb’s chest. “Please don’t let him take me, Robb. Please don’t!”

“I won’t!” Robb hugged him back. “I swear to you, Theon, on my life, no one is going to take you away from me.”

For some reason, it had never crossed his mind that Lord Bolton would show in person. Though he realized now how naïve that had been. He’d requested summons sent to every house, and that included House Bolton.

He sat with Theon for several long minutes, just holding him while the other boy trembled. Shit. What was he going to do? He couldn’t just ignore Lord Bolton, have him turned away at the gate. But neither could he receive the man into his hall.

Finally, with a sigh, he began to stand. Theon clung to him and tried to pull him back down.

“I have to see to it,” Robb said. “Stay here. I’ll leave a guard to protect you.” He didn’t truly think Lord Bolton would try anything. But then again, he hadn’t believed any of the Houses capable of what he’d seen done to Theon.

Theon shook his head and stood as well, pawing at Robb’s shirt. “No, you can’t! You can’t leave me alone while _that man_ in here. Please, please don’t leave me alone.” There was true panic in his eyes, the sort Robb hadn’t seen for several months.

“I have to meet with him,” Robb said.

“I don’t care!” Theon cried. “Please don’t leave me.” There were tears in his eyes now.

Robb took him gently into his arms and wiped the tears from his cheek with his thumb. “Alright,” he said. Perhaps it would be better. Hallis Mollen and the entire guard would be there. Perhaps it was the safest place Theon could be. “We’ll deal with this quickly,” he said. “And I promise you, Lord Bolton will know he is not welcome within the walls of Winterfell.”

***

Lord Bolton was not an intimidating man. Not in stature, at least. And yet the sight of him, striding into the great hall with even, calculated step, set the hair standing on Robb’s arms. Roose was flanked on either side by his own guards, though Robb had ordered they disarm themselves before being allowed inside. Robb wondered if either one of them was Ramsay. He’d never laid eyes on Bolton’s younger son. He didn’t dare turn to check on Theon, didn’t want to draw attention to where Theon was huddled in the corner next to Maester Luwin.

Roose gave a proper bow. “My lord, I have received your summons.”

“Welcome, Lord Bolton,” Robb said, sitting up straighter in his chair, subconsciously mimicking Roose’s unnaturally stiff posture. “My thanks for answering so swiftly, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time in coming here.”

“Oh?” Roose did not seem genuinely surprised. “I am truly sorry, my lord. I hope your displeasure has nothing to do with that unpleasantness between my ward and younger son.”

“ _Unpleasantness_!?” Robb repeated, fighting the urge to leap to his feet.

“Ramsay is paying his penance at the Wall, per your father’s orders. You’ll find I did not object in the slightest.”

“The way you did not object to the way your son was treating your ward?”

Roose raised his hands. “I had no knowledge of what my son was doing to the boy.”

He was lying. Robb knew he was lying. Everyone in this room knew he was lying. And worse, Roose knew that they knew he was lying.

“The boy can attest that I never personally laid a hand on him. Isn’t that so—” Roose nodded somewhere off behind Robb’s chair “—Lord Greyjoy?”

Robb’s back went stiff. Despite his efforts not to draw attention to Theon, apparently Roose had noticed his presence regardless. So now Robb spun to see the stricken look on Theon’s face, like a cornered rabbit.

“It is good to see you well, Theon,” Roose said.

Theon’s chin quivered, and Robb saw his lips making the shape of, “Reek.” But at the last second, he shook his head and bolted, darting behind Maester Luwin and Hallis Mollen and his guards and vanishing out the back exit of the hall.

Robb pushed himself to his feet to give chase. “Lord Bolton,” he said over his shoulder, “you are not welcome in Winterfell, but neither do you have my leave to go. You and your men will wait until such time as I call for you again.” And with that, he was running after Theon, holding out his hand to stay the guards.

He found Theon at the end of the hallway, scrunched up under one of the windows. He looked up when Robb approached. His eyes were red, but it didn’t look like he’d been crying. He wiped as his face with the back of his hand and sniffled. “I’m sorry. I promised not to make a scene, and now I’ve gone and embarrassed you in front of your subjects.”

“Oh, Theon, no.” Robb knelt down next to him. “ _I’m_ sorry. I never should have allowed that man in the castle. I promise I’m not going to let him get away with his role in what happened to you.”

“He _didn’t_ lay a hand on me, you know. But he was _there_. He _knew_.”

“I know,” Robb said. “I can have him executed, if you want.”

Theon’s eyes went wide. Almost accusatory in their surprise.

“I _can_ ,” Robb repeated. “He jeopardized our relations with the Iron Islands, enabled and even encouraged the mistreatment of a valuable hos—ward, and now he’s lied to his liege lord. I’d be well within my rights to take his head.”

“I don’t want that,” Theon said, reaching out and gripping the front of Robb’s tunic. “Please, Robb, don’t—don’t have him killed on my account.”

Robb sighed. True, there were legitimate charges he could bring against Roose Bolton, but at the end of the day, he’d be ordering a man to death as an act of revenge, not justice. He couldn’t allow himself to slip into that. To use his power as Lord of Winterfell in whatever way he wished. It would make him no better than Lord Bolton himself, or Ramsay for that matter.

“I didn’t mean it,” he reassured Theon.

“You need his men, don’t you?” Theon said. “If you’re going to ride south to rescue your father and sisters?”

“I’m not sure I trust Lord Bolton to ride with me at all,” Robb said. “I could give him and his soldiers something to do, some sort of menial task to do or fort to hold. Something that would basically be exile. It’s not like he could say no to his liege lord.” It might actually be more fitting, in a way. Let the other Northern lords see how little House Stark trusted House Bolton at the moment.

“Where will you send him?” Theon asked warily.

Robb gnawed on his lip again, thinking. “I suppose it depends,” he said at last.

“On what?”

“On where you’ll be. I intend to station Lord Bolton as far away from you as possible.”

Theon ducked his head. “And where will I be?” I asked the floor.

“That’s up to you.” Robb held out a hand, and when Theon didn’t flinch, he gently cupped the side of the other boy’s face. “You realize that to ride south, I’ll have to leave Winterfell right?”

Theon nodded.

“And that I might be gone for a long time?”

“But you’ll take me with you, won’t you?”

Robb drew in a deep breath. “It will be dangerous.”

“Please.” Theon lifted his head, and leveled those enormous blue-green eyes at him. His hands tightened on Robb’s tunic. “Please don’t leave me, Robb.”

“You could go back to the Iron Islands.”

“No!” Theon yelled. So loudly his voice actually echoed off the walls. “No, please, I already told you, I don’t want to go there. Don’t send me there. I want to be where you are. I want to be _with_ you.”

Robb let out his breath. He’d known how this conversation would go, but they’d needed to have it anyway. “Alright,” he said, stroking Theon’s cheek with his thumb. “I won’t stop you, if that’s what you really want. But first, we have to convince the other lords to join us.”

***

That night, with Theon wrapped around him, Robb considered what it would mean to bring the other boy with him. They wouldn’t be able to spend nights like this anymore. Not without raising unwanted questions. And he knew there would be questions anyway, about why he was bringing along a Greyjoy hostage. It might not sit well with the other lords.

Robb wondered again how much was known about what had happened to Theon at the Dreadfort. Certainly word had spread far enough that the Iron Islands knew—but exactly _how much_ remained a mystery.

Theon’s breath was gentle against Robb’s neck. Ironic how he slept more soundly these days when Robb could hardly sleep a wink. It was why he found himself coming to Theon’s room on these particularly restless nights, when so often in the past it had been Theon coming to him. He would probably be up and pacing around if he remained alone in his own bed. But with Theon lying against him, keeping him there, he didn’t dare move for fear of waking the other boy.

He lay there, thinking about the future, gently running his fingers through Theon’s hair. Even if he couldn’t sleep, having Theon next to him eased his mind. He even felt himself starting to drift off when a slight movement caught his eye.

At first he thought it was just a shadow; it was _so_ slight, it could have been anything. But he’d been lying awake in the darkness long enough that his eyes could make out a shape. The figure of a man, an arm slowly rising from its side.

It might have been a trick of his eyes. Or there might have been a perfectly innocent explanation to why someone was in Theon’s room at this time of night. But Robb’s mind skipped past both those possibilities and he bolted upright. “Guards!”

The figure went rigid for just a moment, then, realizing they’d been caught, lunged forward. Their arm came swinging down, and Robb caught the glint of metal in the dark.

“Theon! Look out!” He grabbed Theon tight and rolled over.

The attacker’s strike hit the mattress hard, but missed its target. Feathers burst into the air like snow, the mattress cut open from the attacker’s weapon.

In Robb’s arms, Theon jolted awake. He’d been so soundly asleep that Robb was shocked when he snapped into an upright position, head whipping around. He must have seen the figure then, the knife buried in the mattress, the feathers like snow in the air. Without asking any questions, he threw himself forward.

“Theon!” Robb tried to grab for him, but Theon was already on top of the assassin— _assassin_ , that was what this was.

He tackled the figure, knocking them off the bed. “I won’t let you!” he screamed. “I won’t let you hurt Robb!”

Robb scrambled over the bed. All he could see were two shapes wrestling in the dark. At least until the door to his bedroom burst open, spilling light over the scene. Both Theon and the assassin were on the floor. The assassin trying in vain to buck off Theon, who had his teeth sunk into the attacker’s arm. An arm which was wielding a wicked-looking dagger.

Neither one reacted to the guards hurrying into the room, too caught up in their own struggle. It took two guards to pull Theon off the hapless assassin, who was then disarmed and held at sword-point.

“Lord Stark?” Hallis Mollen asked, taking in the scene. “What’s going on in here?”

Robb ignored him and hopped out of bed and ran to Theon’s side. “Are you alright?” he asked, taking hold of the boy by his shoulders and giving him a quick check for injuries. He was ruffled, but there was no sign of blood. “You idiot! You could have been killed!”

“ _You_ could have been killed,” Theon said back.

“You _both_ could have been killed,” Hal said. “What are you doing out of your room, Lord Stark? How do you expect my men to guard you if you’re not where you’re supposed to be?”

Robb didn’t answer. He didn’t feel like answering. And more importantly, he didn’t need to answer, didn’t need to explain himself.

Not right now, at least.

With a sigh, Hal turned to the assassin, whom the other guards had forced to his knees. He grabbed the man’s hood and yanked it back, revealing a gaunt-faced man Robb did not recognize. “Hope your tongue’s feeling loose tonight, lad. I’m very curious what you’re doing in Lord Stark’s ward’s quarters.”

The man cradled his arm—Theon had left a bleeding bite wound—and refused to meet the captain of the guard’s eyes.

“Someone pay you?” Hal prodded the man with his boot. “Hope it was worth it, because there’s no version of this that ends up with you _not_ hanging from your neck.”

The man still did not speak.

“Let’s try this then.” Hal knelt down and grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair. “You tell us why you attacked Lord Stark, like a good lad, or I’ll have the gaoler loosen your tongue for you. He doesn’t get to use his fancy ‘toys’ too often, and I know he would just _love_ to show them to you.”

The man grimaced. “Wasn’t aiming for your little lordling.”

“Oh?” Hal asked. “No?”

The assassin’s eyes trailed past Hal, landing on where Robb stood comforting Theon. “Ramsay Snow sent me.”

Robb felt Theon’s body go rigid in his grasp.

“He sends his regards from the Wall,” the man said.

Hal gave him a swift kick to the gut. “Alright, get this cunt out of here.” As they dragged the man away, unprotesting, Hal turned back. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord. I’ll have the men flogged for allowing that cur anywhere near you.”

“No,” Robb said. “Just…double the guard, would you?”

Hal nodded, then paused to give Theon an odd look. He wisely didn’t say anything, though, and left to see his men from the room.

Robb sighed. There wouldn’t be much sleep tonight. That much was clear. And there would be questions in the morning. Not only about the assassination attempt, but about why Lord Robb Stark had been in Theon Greyjoy’s room at night.

For now, though, they had a moment to themselves.

He realized he’d not been breathing and the air came rushing out of his lungs, leaving him feeling empty and drained. He pulled Theon’s trembling body close. “Theon,” he murmured. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

Theon held him back. “I didn’t even think. When Mast…when Ramsay used to wake me, I had to know what to do. He always wanted something and I—if I could figure what he wanted out quickly, it would…” His shoulders started shaking, and small, hiccupping sobs eked their way out of his throat. “So when you woke me, and I saw that person, I knew right away. I didn’t think, Robb. I didn’t _need_ to think. He would have killed you.”

_He was here for **you**_ , Robb thought, but didn’t say. Because it didn’t change one bit how brave Theon had been.

He pressed a kiss to Theon’s temple. “I love you, Theon, so much. But don’t _ever_ do anything like that again. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I couldn’t.” He wasn’t even aware of the tears building in his eyes until one broke free and slid down his cheek, leaving a cooling trail in its wake. “You can’t leave me, do you hear? Not ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your requests! 
> 
> And to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos.
> 
> <3 VagrantWriter


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